


I Could Kid Myself In Thinking That I'm Fine

by semi_sweet



Series: Lonely little life [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Bc we need more of that, Bottom!Pete, Depression, Emotions, Feelings, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Patrick is mentally instable and not dealing with it the best way, Pete Wentz's Suicide Attempt (Best Buy Incident), Peterick, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Top!Patrick, badly handled mental health, but I'm happy with it, canon-divergence, do i tag emotions, fall out boy but different, i'll tag more as i go along, idek, idk i tried to write depression, is that how I tag it?, it's getting a little fluffy uwu, might be shit though i apologize, pete just wants feelings, pete wentz is fucking clueless, spoilers start here, thank kass for this, the ending is bittersweet, then again who am I to judge?, there's a twist at the end, whatever I just did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: Patrick's not quite certain what to do with the strange kid in the silver trousers he finds on his way home one day, but he sure as hell wasn't planning on him sticking around for such a substantial part of his life.OR the one where Patrick has too many emotions and Pete doesn't have enough. Also he doesn't know what strawberries are.





	1. When your passion's exaltation

**Author's Note:**

> Hiii guys, so, uh, basically I'm sick of the Patrick/Pete tag being nothing but Joshler and Frerard. I've not got any actually decent tags at this point and the summary is shite, but check the tags for triggers and so and I really hope my inability to summarize hasn't put you off reading this :) enjoy! I'll see you at the end of the Chapter. (also I thought about naming every chapter but let's be real... oh, okay, I'll try.)

The sun was burning down on the back of Patrick’s neck as he bent over in its full glare. His skin was unusually pale for a boy that spent so much of his time working in in fields in the middle of summer. Picking strawberries was much harder than people thought, but he got paid for it, enough to stop his mother complaining about the fact that he was wasting his life behind a drum kit. Most of the time, anyway. Occasionally, when money got short and she was close to burning out again, she’d blow a fuse and take it out on him. It wasn’t too bad, he was used to the comments about music not paying bills and what not, and if it got too bad, he’d crash at Joe’s – even more so since he had his own flat closer to university.

“See, Rick,” his mother had said when Joe had first announced he was moving out, “Joe’s getting a degree and making music in his free time.”

Patrick hadn’t responded to that, it had always been obvious that his mother wished he were more like the neighbour’s kid. In honesty, Patrick wished he could be more like Joe, too. Anyway, he’d run out of ways to tell her he wasn’t good at anything but music. Not like Joe, who seemed to excel at just about anything he put his mind to. It kinda wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t exactly Joe’s fault, either, so Patrick never held it against him. Besides, Joe Trohman was probably his only real friend. Sure, he’d occasionally hang out with Victoria or Brendon, but he didn’t trust them the way he trusted Joe – he trusted no-one the way he trusted Joe – and he knew Joe was trustworthy, at least judging by his mother’s obliviousness concerning his ex-boyfriend.

Not that he’d deliberately hidden Gerard and the implications he had for his sexuality from his family, he just didn’t want it to be turned into a bigger deal than it was. It hadn’t worked out, anyway, so he could just make sure his next partner was a girl and yet another way to potentially let his parents down. Not that his dad had shown any interest in him recently.

Patrick straightened his back and stretched before wiping the sweat off his brow. His muscles complained and he sighed in frustration when he saw how pink his arms were. Again. Patrick made a mental note to buy stronger sun cream as he picked up his large basket of fruit.

He made his way through the field, the glaring summer sun thankfully losing some of its unforgiving burn as it made its way westward. His watch read 6.20 p. m. when he finally handed over the strawberries, having weighed off the pound and a half he was allowed to take home on Saturdays, and collected his pay - $75 for eleven hours, not bad considering the work he did.

Weekend. Finally. He’d visit Joe tomorrow, they hadn’t seen each other in a while. He must remember to text him rather than show up out of the blue this time, the image of his best friend making out half-naked with some girl off campus was not one he needed updating any time soon. He still refused to sit on that couch.

Patrick went to unlock his bike before remembering the crash he’d had last week, thankfully leaving him unharmed (scraped knees and injured dignity aside), but his bike in a wreck. Great, long walk home. He wasn’t spending any more money on bus fees he’d never be able to afford a new snare at this rate.

His feet complained as he walked along the eastbound road that would take him home within the next two or three hours. Fun times. At least he had Kevin’s old Walkman and, like, two cassettes. Better than nothing.

When he reached the second bus stop along his route after thirty minutes, Patrick swallowed his desire to improve his drum kit and inspected the time table. Well, with 40 minutes to wait, he figurd he could head to the next stop rather than stand around doing nothing. He ended up walking two stops before deciding he’d wait for 15 minutes rather than missing the bus, so he settled down on the mucky, wooden bench underneath a glass covering.

Patrick sat listening to Young Americans for about five minutes before a loud crash pierced through the sound of Bowie’s voice. He tugged his headphones off and looked around, trying to find the source of the noise.

There.

The bins across the street.

Walking up to them was probably not the smartest thing Patrick had ever done, but then again, joining four bands instead of going to uni couldn’t be that much dumber, could it?

“Hello?” Patrick asked cautiously, before shaking his head at his stupidity to presume this was more than a stray cat searching for its next meal. He’d convinced himself of so much when a human face popped out from behind one of the large, grey containers, startling Patrick.

“Whoa, hey there, umh…” the guy stepped out from his hiding spot, confusing Patrick even more. He didn’t look like the homeless dude he’d been expecting in fact, he didn’t look like anything Patrick could have expected. He was dressed in… well, a combination of biker leathers and a K*I*S*S stage costume(minus the hair and make-up) and had dark hair not quite short enough to be considered a buzzcut to match his whiskey eyes. His skin was tan and Patrick spotted the edge of a tattoo poking out from underneath the right sleeve of his leather jacket. His jaw was sharp and defined, plump lips puckering below a slightly flattened nose. Patrick figured this guy probably wasn’t as white as him and boy was he pretty. But that thought was hastily pushed aside.

“Uh, I’m Patrick, you?” His shoulders were pulled up to his ears, hands pushed into his jeans, trucker hat balancing on his head, totally lop-sided.

“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III” the man said, matter-of-factly. Patrick nearly snorted. “What were you doing back there, Pete?” He muttered something incoherent before waving the question off. “So, uh, you okay to get home?” Pete replied with a blank expression “I can’t get home.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Pete shrugs. “Okay, so… where are you gonna sleep?” Pete points to the waste paper bin. “Oh right…” Patrick suddenly feels very awkward. “Well… good night, I guess…” Pete twisted his mouth into something Patrick interpreted as a smile disappearing again.

He was almost back at the bus stop when his guilty conscience kicked in. “Wait…” Patrick stopped and turned in the middle of the street. “wait, do…” Pete’s head popped out from behind one of the bins, his expression still blank. Patrick sighed, already cursing himself for the offer he was about to make ”Do you wanna stay at my place tonight?” Pete narrowed his eyes in suspicion – the first real emotion he’d shown – before slowly nodding.

Great.                                                                                  

Patrick sighed. “alright, come on then.” Pete’s silver trousers reflected the orange sunlight as he darted across the street to meet Patrick at the bus top, just in time.

It was with great apprehension that Patrick paid Pete’s fee. Of course he didn’t have the money. Of course.

-

They were in luck. Patrick’s mum was in the shower when they got in and it wasn’t the bathroom near his room. They snuck upstairs without being noticed, though his pants would probably be more difficult to explain than Pete himself.

Patrick shoved a pair of sweatpants into his hand before rushing out to let his mum know he was home. “Hey mom, I’m back!” he called through the closed door. The water shut off. “What took you so long, darling?”

“My bike broke, remember? Had to wait for the bus.”  
“Oh yeah.” Patrick waited until he could hear the familiar rushing of the shower before he headed back to his room. Pete was standing in front of the battered old Gibson his dad had given him as compensation for not giving a shit about his son. Patrick wasn’t gonna complain, he liked the guitar.

“You play?” Pete jumped at the interruption and spun around, his features relaxing at the sight of Patrick. “Uh no, yeah, well, something similar, it’s called a bass, you know it?” Patrick raised his eyebrows until they disappeared behind his fringe. “Oh, it’s like this but it only has four strings and it’s d-“

“Yes,” Patrick cut him off, “Yes I know what a bass is.” Pete nodded and a spark went off in the back of Patrick’s mind. “Wait, you play bass?” Now it was Pete’s turn to furrow his eyebrows as he looked at him as though he were stupid. He ignored it.

“My friends want to start a band, they need a bassist! Would you…” He trailed off, leaving the question open, but the taller (if only by, like, two inches) man picked up on it. “Uh, well, I would, but I don’t have a bas..”  
“My friend Brendon has on, I’m sure he’d lend it to you! He’ll be doing rhythm guitar and vocals, he’s really good.” That earned him a shrug but Patrick figured it was an affirmative one. A grin split his face. “Great!”

As if on cue, his mother called him down for dinner and Patrick quickly shoved the first book he could see into his guest’s hand before rushing towards the smell of food.

-

Patrick wolfed his dinner down, avoiding all questions about his day by grunting in response whenever the conversation went in that direction. His mum seemed to be in a good mood, but he didn’t want to ruin that by announcing the newest addition to their household, conveniently ignoring the question flitting around the back of his mind: How long was Pete going to stay? Probably not the most pressing question, considering Patrick had a potentially criminal homeless guy he knew nothing about sitting in his room. He suddenly felt the urge to make sure Pete hadn’t run off with his guitar.

Patrick shoved down the last mouthful of pasta before carrying his plate to the kitchen and rushing upstairs quickly enough for his mum not to be able to tell him off.

Pete was still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring unseeingly at the pages of the book opened in his lap. Where was he going to sleep? Patrick sat down in front of him and stared at the top of his head until Pete lifted his gaze and their eyes met. “Why were you on the street?”  
Pete let out a rush of air that sounded suspiciously like an attempt at a chuckle. “Long story.”  
“I’ve got time.”  
“You wouldn’t believe me.”  
“Try me.” Pete closed the book and sighed, leaning back so he was resting on his hands. His t-shirt rode up a little, revealing a stretch of inked skin above the line of the sweatpants he was now wearing. Patrick tore his gaze away. “I was thrown out. Basically. And I can’t even get back to set things right.” Patrick nodded, wondering what the fuck wasn’t plausible about that. “Okay, uh, what are you gonna do?” A shrug. “I’ll find something, I dunno.” He seemed miles away as he stared at the wall that was as blank as his expression. “Well, you can… I have a sleeping bag you could use, maybe if you pile up some cushions you could sleep on them. No offence, but I’m not sharing a bed.” Thankfully, Pete seemed okay with that arrangement and Patrick quietly smuggled some large pillows out of the closet in his mum’s room they then arranged into something resembling a mattress. Pete spread out the green sleeping bag that usually lived on top of Patrick’s wardrobe and slipped out of his leather jacket before crawling in. “Oh, do you want something else to wear to sleep in?” Patrick asked, who’d just emerged from the bathroom, teeth brushed, in his favourite batman pyjamas. Pete hesitated and scratched behind his ear, probably feeling too awkward to ask for some, so Patrick threw him a pair of checked blue pyjamas he found at the bottom of his drawer.

“You can get changed in the bathroom. No, actually, wait, my mum might see you, umh, maybe I c-“ But evidently Pete wasn’t as shy as him when it came to showing off bare skin, he’d already whipped off his t-shirt and the sweatpants before Patrick could at least turn his back and the younger of the two found himself staring even when blue cotton was covering the tanned legs and torso. “I, uh… okay.” He climbed into bed, pulling the covers up as far as he could without suffocating to hide the blush spreading across his features.

It was only 9 p. m. How in hell was he supposed to sleep now? He was, surprisingly, not tired, despite the work he’d been doing all day.

Pete’s stomach rumbled in the silence that had engulfed them about an hour after Patrick had shut off the light. Oh. Yeah. He hadn’t eaten.

 _“Pete,”_ he kept his voice low, in case his guest was already asleep. He wasn’t, going by the grunt he got in response. “You hungry?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Patrick sat up and flicked the light back on, slightly embarrassed by how his hair must look. Pete didn’t look too much better, the right side of his face creased from here he’d been lying on the provisionary mattress. Patrick paced towards the door, trying not to step on creaky floorboards, and wondering whether he could smuggle anything from the fridge. The TV was on.

Right, time to come up with a lie about why he was smuggling a whole meal to hi r-

Wait.

Patrick shut his door again and went to open his rucksack, only to find the strawberries still sitting at the bottom, a little squished in places, but still perfectly edible.

 Pete frowned at them. “Oh come on, everybody loves strawberries, man!” Patrick held one underneath his nose, expecting him to take it, but to his surprise, Pete ducked down and ate it out of his hand. Patrick froze as he felt soft lips brush against his palm, too distracted to tell Pete NOT to eat the stalk. His face screwed up as he spat out the tiny green leaves. “That’s gross.”

“You’re… not supposed to eat… that bit.” Patrick shook himself to regain his composure. Regain. As if he’d ever had any. “look,” he picked another one out of the basked and popped it in his mouth, pulling off the green bits as he held onto the rest with his teeth. _Why the fuck didn’t Pete know how to eat strawberries._ “Oh.” Pete carefully took a small-ish one, delicately holding it, as though it were a living thing, and mimicked Patrick’s actions.

His face lit up as he chewed the red fruit. “Oh my god!” Patrick couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. “Can I have more?” He nodded, pushing the basked closer towards the dark-haired man, of which he was more and more certain that he was just a boy, and watched him as he ate one strawberry after another. “Not too quickly, they might make your tummy hurt if you eat too many.” Pete looked at them suspiciously, as thought they were about to eat _him_. “It’s okay, just… maybe not all at once.”

He climbed back into bed, marvelling at this odd guy he’d let into his home. He hoped he wouldn’t die in his sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading that.  
> So, the story is finished, it has 22k words at the moment, though I very probably will add more scenes as I post because it's a little quick-paced for my liking. anyway, I'll try to upload multiple times a week, but I'm back at uni soon so I hope you understand if I can't always update this that frequently.  
> Anyway, drop me a comment if you like, I'd really appreciate it and I hope you stick around for the next part :)


	2. Finding Refuge Is Not Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should point out that I don't know Chicago, and I'm just letting you know that this story is 200% geographically inaccurate.  
> Enjoy.

Patrick dropped Pete off at Joe’s the next day.

He'd figured out relatively quickly that he couldn't hide Pete in his bedroom forever, especially not when the dude didn't seem to understand the concept of a fucking key, leading to a near-traumatizing incident involving his mother, a toiler-brush and nudity. Oh, and the small fact that Pete for some reason was fucking terrified of Patrick's hamster Suki.

He'd kind of been woken up by the scrabbling of tiny feet against sawdust and more or less screamed the house down before Patrick managed to shut him up by almost suffocating him with a pillow (he brushed it off as a screamer on his PC when his mother frantically knocked on his door and then got yelled at for being awake at 4 a. m.). But even after having reassured Pete that, no, Suki definitely wasn't a disease-carrying rat hell-bent on his destruction and no, she couldn't get out of her cage, he'd refused to sleep so close to her, leaving Patrick with no other option than giving up his bed.

And no, he didn't get any more sleep that night.

So, after the mother-toilet-brush-nudity incident - something Patrick really didn't want to dwell on any longer than he had to - his brain suddenly reminded him that he had a friend who lived alone and was really bad at resisting his puppy eyes.

Patrick had called Joe, explaining the situation, (“This is messed up, dude, how the fuck do you know if this guy is trustworthy? You want him to stay with _me_? No way!”) and after some convincing, he had agreed to let Pete stay over at his place. Mainly due to the fact that this meant they may have found a bassist.

It wasn't too hard to get out of the house without his mum noticing, then again, nothing seemed hard after a night of trying to hide quite possibly the clumsiest guy Patrick had ever come across. Patrick hurried Pete out of the front door before yelling he was off to Joe's and would be back at... some point. Probably.

Getting to the bus stop in time was, however, a bigger challenge than Patrick would have suspected. Pete kept stopping dead in the middle of the pavement and Patrick would have to almost forcefully drag him away from a tree he was fondling like some tripping hippie or a cat he was trying to stroke. Pete whined in protest, but quickly shut up when Patrick explained they were on a schedule.

he also had an odd obsession with the stop-button on the bus. Patrick kept having to apologize to the driver when he kept coming to a halt only for nobody to get off. It was doing wonders for Patrick's anxiety. Not. He pulled his cap down further over his face and sank into the chair a little lower when a group of people he recognized from high school crowded into the vehicle, really not wanting to have to explain Pete to any of them. He had, in the meantime, given up on making the bus go _ding_ and was staring out of the window like a five-year-old on their way to the park. Or a dog in the trunk of the car. Actually, that was a rather fitting description of his guest. A curious puppy.

Joe’s grin was plastered onto his face when he opened the door to his two-room apartment, announcing that Pete could have the couch (a step up from a pile of cushions) with no sign of his initial apprehension. He really was desperate.

“So,” Patrick asked as Pete prodded the couch, “you found a drummer yet?” Joe nodded enthusiastically. So that’s why he was so eager. “You won’t believe it, but Andy Hurley has agreed to help us out!” Patrick was genuinely stunned by that. Andy was amazing, he played a shit-tonne of bands, all different styles, and all insanely good. Patrick adored him, he was by far the best drummer in the area, and to think that Joe had convinced him to play in this pop punk thing he was trying to set up was insane. “No way, man! That’s so cool!” Joe was pleased with himself, that much was clear, he strutted around the place as though he owned it (well… he did) and his expression was one of pride. Patrick couldn’t deny the little pang of jealousy in his chest.

“You good at bass?” Joe inquired and Pete, yet again, shrugged “I’m okay. I can play a tune.”  
“Well, with Andy as the drummer, I guess we can all be as shit as we want, people will still love us.” Patrick tried not to let the hurt he felt at that show, Joe had tried to do bands with him before, and they’d flopped. Maybe that had been because of him. Maybe Andy was his replacement. Fuck maybe, Andy _was_ his replacement. Not that he could blame Joe for that…

“I have to go.” He announced when he felt he couldn’t hold back the disappointment anymore. “Already, dude? Thought you’d stick around till we left for practice! We’re meeting at Andy’s” _Great, yeah, Andy._ “No, I have… I have band practice too, you know.” Joe’s expression was hard to read and Patrick refused to believe the voice that was telling him he was being looked down on. “Right, well, see you soon, then?”  
“Yeah, see you round Joe, take care of this one.” Patrick said before rushing home.

He spent the rest of the day locked in the basement, away from and interruption, hunched over his kit, halfheartedly tapping out irregular beats, not being able to hold them and not caring either as doubt started eating at his confidence. 

_Would he ever be good enough for anybody?_

***

Pete, on the other hand, was having a great time. They left for Andy’s shortly after Patrick had gone home and Joe had wittered on about his entire life on the drive there, barely pausing for breath. Pete thought liked him, he was a lot more open than Patrick, who didn’t say much and tried to hide himself away behind big sweaters and hats and what not.

Andy was a small guy with a surprisingly high-pitched voice, shoulder-length hair, glasses and a piercing on his chin, which struck Pete as very odd, he’d never seen anybody with a piercing in their face before. He seemed nice, but a bit more reserved than Joe, Brendon, on the other hand, was loud and outgoing. He had brought both his guitar and his bass and handed it to Pete after plugging it in to the correct amp. Pete was amazed by the size of them amplifier, it seemed huge compared to the ones he knew that he could fit into his pocket. But then again, things were bound to be different here.

Brendon had a good, strong voice, he hit high notes without hesitation and belted out anything you asked him to. He wasn’t bad on guitar either, not a patch on Joe though, who played like a beast. And then there was Andy, who had really earned his reputation as the best drummer in the area (Joe had told him so much, anyway), he was always on-time, always knew what to do when, and competent enough to improvise without fucking up. Pete felt like and amateur among them.

But they seemed to be satisfied with him, Brendon clapped him on the shoulder, a broad grin on his face, and Joe was beaming with delight.  
They went out to a diner after their little jamming session, Pete felt aa little uncomfortable about the fact that Joe was paying for his meal, but he’d reassured him that it wasn’t a problem and he was very glad to pay for the newest addition to their band.

Pete was warming up a little by the time their food arrived, laughing along as best he could to Brendon’s stupid jokes - he figured out quite quickly that that was what was expected, Pete was a quick learner - and making up some story about his parents when Joe asked about them. He wasn’t warm enough to tell them yet, besides they’d never believe him. Also he was sure he’d get everybody into trouble if he let it slip.  
These people were a little strange with their laughing and shouting, but they seemed to mean well and Pete could learn to deal with it.

Joe’s couch was comfier than the makeshift beanbag Patrick had constructed the day before, not that he was ungrateful, anything was better than a waste paper bin, but this for sure was a step up. He slept just fine, even though he woke up several times during the night, but he never struggled to drift back off again until he heard Joe pottering around at about 7 a. m.

“I’ve got courses today, you’ll be alone for a while… I’ll leave you Patrick’s phone number and you can call him if you need anything. Actually, I’ll leave Brendon’s here, too, just in case. Just help yourself to food, if you can find any, I need to go shopping.” A thought crossed Pete’s mind, and in his sleep-drunken state he just managed to compact it into one word: “strawberries.” Joe shook his head “sorry pal, I don’t have any, but I’ll see if I can get some.” Pete nodded and flopped back. He liked _strawberries_. They were sweet but also sour and it was strange but nice. But the _sandwich_ Joe had given him yesterday wasn’t bad, either.

He must have fallen asleep again because when he sat back up, the circle Pete had identified as an odd clock on the wall read 9.30 and Joe was gone. Pete stood up and walked around the small room. The piece of paper Joe had scrawled the numbers on was pinned against the fridge and it fell to the floor when Pete opened it. He wasn’t sure what the numbers were for or how they’d get Patrick or Brendon to help him, but he’d figure that out later.

The fridge looked kinda empty. Pete grabbed a block of what Joe had called cheese lying on the centre shelf and started nibbling at it to fill up his empty stomach. He was halfway through when the doorbell rang.

Pete got up and awkwardly paced towards the spy-hole, not sure what to do if it wasn’t just Joe who’d forgotten his keys.

He opened the flimsy front door when he spotted Brendon outside, carrying a guitar case and an amp. “Hey dude! Figured you might want this.” He set down the case (Pete realized it was the bass, not a guitar) and dumped the amp next to it, “I don’t play that often so you can borrow it until you can afford your own when this band takes off and we’re rich an famous,” he followed it up with that thing Joe did a lot where he closed one of his eyes (it meant he was sort of joking) but something in his tone told Pete he was being serious. He really believed this would go somewhere. Pete smiled, trying to make it look as convincing as possible. Not that this wouldn’t go anywhere, but it was so unlikely, so much luck was involved, and to presume it would work out was dangerous. Disappointment waits on the other side of hope.

“Thanks, Beebz.” Brendon raised an eyebrow at the nickname but didn’t comment on it, so Pete decided this was now going to be what he was called. “Yesterday was good, man, like, really, really good. I’ve done a few bands, not as many as Andy or Patrick, but a few and they didn’t feel like this!” Pete had stopped listening, his brain still stuck on one word. “You know Patrick?” Brendon nodded “yeah man, we’re mates, we went to school together.”  
“Oh.”  
“Why? How do you know him?”  
“I slept with him two nights ago.” Brendon’s jaw dropped open and Pete didn't quite know how to interpret his reaction until he realized what he'd just said “no, no I mean at his place, on the floor, I was just _at_ his place.” God. Why. This was not a Freudian slip. “Sure you did.” He wasn’t great at detecting sarcasm, but Pete figured that was what he heard in Brendon’s voice. He wouldn’t call him out on it. Best to change the subject.

***

Patrick spent the next three days working, bent over in a field for 33 hours in total, trying not to think of anything, trying not to let his mind venture places he really didn’t want it to go. He hadn’t spent four years of his life building walls only for his best friend to tear them down with the help of a stranger Patrick had taken in.

He knew what this was. He had always envied Joe, his success, his confidence, his luck, the fact that girls loved him and a lot of guys did, too, even though he didn’t like guys. It wasn’t fair. Patrick liked both and all the attention he ever got was one short-term boyfriend he’d dated for two months, fucked once and then got dumped by. He’d never held it against him. Not that or the fact that he was better academically even though he didn’t do anything. Not that Patrick worked hard, he just… did more than Joe. But no, he wasn’t going to let that make him bitter. He couldn’t let that make him bitter. Joe was his best friend and the only person he trusted.

But man, what he had said had hurt. Patrick wanted to make music, that was all. He wanted to be in a band that got paid in more than beer, he wanted to do something worthwhile. He wanted to be a drummer.

He’d done this band with Joe, they hadn’t even had a name, but he figured they weren’t bad! It had been him, Joe, a dude called Mikey and a kid called Tyler and they’d been good. At least he’d thought so. However, with Joe’s words fresh in mind, maybe the split hadn’t been because Mikey’s brother was Patrick’s ex, but because the drums were shit and nobody had had the heart to throw him out. Maybe that’s why none of his bands were getting anywhere. It wasn’t bad luck, it wasn’t the others, it was him. The common denominator. He wasn’t good enough.

All he focused on was the pain in his back and the sun burning his body as he pulled rotten strawberries off wilting plants that had either been given too much sun or not enough water. So what if he got heatstroke? Who cared? Nobody. That was who.

Maybe he was overreacting, maybe Joe hadn’t meant it like that, but it sure as hell felt that way. Wasn’t that worth something? Why couldn’t he just be hurt and admit it for once? _Because he’s your only friend._

Patrick suddenly wished he’d left Pete in that bin. This was his fault, if it hadn’t been for him he wouldn’t have been at Joe’s and Joe wouldn’t have found a bassist for his stupid band and he-

No.

No, that wasn’t fair. Joe would still have found a bassist, they would still have had Andy, they would still be great. It wasn’t fair to take it out on a guy that had been kicked out and left to fend for himself. A guy that didn’t even know strawberries, what had that been about?

He made a mental note to bring Pete some more next Saturday.

But before that, he had a hell of a lot of band practice to catch up on. He’d been avoiding that for the last few days, making excuses about work, failing to mention the fact that he was working to skip band practice in the first place.

At least he nearly had enough money for his new snare. Another few weeks, maybe. That should do it. Just another few weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo yeah okay, I won't always update every day. Also it's like 12 a. m. right now, why do I hate myself?  
> I kinda re-wrote Pete to how I had him originally here, like I said before, it's a little quick-paced for my liking and I hope this slows it down a bit, but I'm one of those assholes that doesn't have enough dedication to write anything longer than 30k and I'm rambling oh dear.  
> I really do hope you'll like this story, it's kinda turned into my baby, I wrote it in four days or so and I'm going over every bit as I post it, adding stuff, editing stuff and so on. But yeah, the basic structure is finito.  
> Anyway, I hope I haven't mucked up on tenses this time and let me know what you think :) Have a nice day/night guys and stay safe


	3. The last to be let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check tags please! tw for this chapter.

A lot happened in a few weeks.

One of Patrick’s bands had split, it had been a long time coming, the singer and the guitarist kept fighting, but somehow the voice in Patrick’s head still blamed him for it. Still. He could feel the walls around his safe place crumbling and it terrified him, but he tried to ignore it.

Joe’s band actually got booked to play at a local thing, a tiny gig at the university, but the yet-to-be-named band was only a few weeks old and already doing better than anything Patrick had ever done.

His mum was in hospital. She’d had an accident coming home from work, her car had smacked into a brick wall, again, Patrick couldn’t silence the voice in his head telling him it hadn’t been an accident, it was just another person who was sick of him. It was stupid, he knew it was, but he couldn’t help these thoughts when they came. And boy, were they coming in waves.

It wasn’t all bad, though, Victoria had asked if he wanted to help her with a project she was planning on, a solo thing, but she could do with a drummer and Patrick hadn’t written anything in a while, so he was looking forward to that.

And, oddly, he was getting to like Pete quite a lot. He’d avoided him at first, worried he’d only trigger his fucking intrusive thoughts and send him spiralling into a pool of anxiety, but when Joe had invited him over for his birthday, he couldn’t decline and had spent more time with Pete than with Joe. It turned out Pete was a nice guy once he warmed up a bit, certainly more outgoing than Patrick, although he did sometimes struggle both with subtle emotions and etiquette. But he liked strawberries. The first time Patrick had brought him some, he’d just left them outside the door, but after the party, it had become part of his routine to come round on a Monday, when Joe was out at uni, and eat strawberries with Pete. Sometimes he’d bring cream or ice cream or biscuits or whatever, once they’d made an attempt at baking a cake, which had ended horribly, but it always involved strawberries. He hadn’t been feeding Pete any from his palm lately, which he was unsurprisingly thankful for, but they’d sit and talk for hours, even though Patrick wasn’t sure what about, because he didn’t seem to know any more about this guy that mysteriously appeared out of nowhere one day. But he liked him. He was nice and didn’t question it when Patrick went into his little safe place in his head that cause him to zone out when he was feeling anxious.

What he did know was that Pete wasn’t a local, it was odd because he spoke like he came from far away but just next door. His parents had been good people, apparently, very righteous, politically active and smart, but he’d got into quite a bit of trouble once that wasn’t his fault and had had to leave. He’d said it was better this way and dismissed it with a shrug as though it were nothing. Patrick didn’t understand that. He didn’t understand how Pete could lose everybody any everything over night because of something that wasn’t his fault and be so emotionless about it. Then again, maybe it was a coping mechanism. Patrick knew about those all too well. Who knows, maybe they could help each other through their shit. Even if Pete technically was the cause for the iron fist grasping around Patrick’s mind.

***

Joe was furious. Pete had retreated to a corner of the room with Andy, they were watching the scene unfold before them. Basically, Brendon had announced he was going to Vegas. Permanently. He’d been to an audition, behind their backs, and the band had taken him. He was giving this up because of this other band. It sucked, Pete wasn’t going to deny it, they’d been together for six months and were already playing small clubs (as opening acts, usually, but still), this was totally absurd and already bigger than Pete had ever imagined this could go. They even had a name for god’s sake! _Forget Me Not_ hadn’t been his first choice, but he didn’t feel in a position to say anything. They were actually getting paid in money at this point, Pete was using his bit to pay for at least a fraction of Joe’s rent, whom he was still living with.

So yes, Pete was pissed, Andy was pissed, but Joe was raging. It was a miracle that he hadn’t damaged any of their gear yet as he threw foul words and the odd pick at Brendon, who just stood there taking it all.

It was 45 minutes before Joe calmed down, closing his eyes still shaking, but forcing himself to breathe deeply. “Get out.” His tone was cold and terrifying, “get out of my house.” Brendon grabbed his guitar and amp and left them, not looking back, not saying goodbye. And then he was gone.

Pete was going to miss him.

He liked Brendon.

Then again, you always meet everybody twice. Wasn’t that the saying?  
Maybe they’d meet at a festival one day. Or an awards show. Pete would like that, he thought. That would be nice.

***

The light was blinding, the bed uncomfortable. Patrick adjusted the frame of it with the switches the nurse had shown him how to operate until he could open his eyes again without his head aching. Mind you, his head always ached. He still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here, although his mum had told him multiple times. “you tripped over one of the removal boxes, sweetie, and fell all the way down the stairs. We’d thought we’d lost you for a moment there.”  
“Why were there removal boxes?”  
“Because we sold the house, remember? We moved into that flat.” Oh. Yeah. When she said “we,” she meant she had moved into a small apartment with a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and a living area, and he was now in a one-room-apartment that he could just about fit a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a tiny kitchen area and half a drum kit in, his dad’s Gibson was on the wall over his desk, the amp to go with it lived underneath it.  
They’d run out of money. It wasn’t unexpected, but still a shock, in honesty, Patrick had already been semi-unconscious from the handful of painkillers he’d swallowed before tripping over the box, and he couldn’t remember that either. He’d asked the doctors to not tell his mum about that, she’d just worry, and he couldn’t deal with her worrying now.

He didn’t even know why he’d taken them, they’d just sort of… been there. And he was hurting a lot. Maybe he was hoping they’d shut his mind up.

The door swung open and Joe came waltzing in. Patrick sighed inwardly. They’d not been on best terms recently. Well, they hadn’t been on any terms, though he wasn’t even sure if Joe had picked up on that or if he was too infatuated with his shiny new band that was slowly taking over Chicago. Okay. Overstatement. They’d played, like, three club dates and a private party, not that big of a deal. _But a bigger deal than anything you’ve ever done._

“Hey buddy, you alright? Heard about your tumble.” Patrick grunted as a response. Joe sat down on the plastic chair next to his bed, helping himself to the apple Patrick had been saving for later. “Hey look, umh, about the band…”

Patrick rolled his eyes. No. really, no. “Joe, no offence, but I don’t give a shit about how much better than me your band is doing right now.” He bit his tongue. He shouldn’t have said that. Patrick didn’t look at Joe but he knew he was wearing a shocked expression. Probably angry.

“What?!” Yep, angry. Patrick fiddled with his hands. “Is that what this is, you’re jealous? You’re jealous because, for once, I’m doing better than you? Jesus, are you jealous because our tiny little band is actually doing better than any of your shitty projects?” Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat. Shitty. He said it. He knew Joe thought he was bad. “Well I’m sorry, princess, I actually came to see how you were doing, but if that’s your attitude, then I don’t care.” Patrick didn’t look up as he stormed out of the room. He just wiped away the single tear soaking his cheek before it could drop onto the pillow and dampen it. He didn’t need visible evidence of how much of a mess he was right now, the infusion sticking out of the back of his hand was enough proof for now. Why did people in movies always pull them out the moment they woke up? It didn’t make any sense.

The plain, undecorated dirty-white wall he’d been facing for hours was starting to painfully remind him of his life. A clear indication that he was completely losing his mind. _You’re relating to a fucking white wall, Patrick, good one, time to call the men in white coats._ Actually, no, maybe not.

He was worried they’d wanna know what had happened and why, when, in all honesty, he couldn’t tell them. They’d put him on some drug or and send him to some shrink who’s want him to lie on a fucking comforter and dig into his soul to find the cancer taking over his mind.

No thanks.

Repressing that shit until it eventually went away was the option Patrick had been going with his entire life and it had worked so far -  the last few weeks being an obvious exception, but whatever. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his problems like some fucking teenage girl crying her heart out on an internet forum because her tits were too fucking small to get guys to want to fuck her.

No, that wasn't fair...

In reality he was just scared of venturing into the ruins of the fort he'd tried to build around that bit of his brain, who knew what was still lurking there.

Patrick stroked over the knuckles of his bandaged right hand. Apparently he’d hurt it when he took his little dive off the first floor, sprained his wrist or something like that. It wasn’t in a cast, just fixated and compressed or whatever the hell the bandage around his arm was doing. He didn’t really care. Maybe he’d get somebody to sign it, just as a joke.

Then again, who would want to?

***

Emotions weren’t his strong point, Pete knew that. Actually, he though he’d always been quite good at them until he came here. Now, it was near hopeless. But he could tell that Patrick had changed.

When they’d first met, he’d been quiet, a bit shy, a bit held back, but kind. Pete had liked him immediately. He’d approached him when all he’d got for three days were filthy or pitying looks, maybe a dollar here or there. But Patrick had helped him, he’d been kind.  
And smiley, maybe not obviously so, but he radiated something nice, even if he didn’t always seem to feel nice himself. Pete had figured out pretty quickly that his family’s circumstances weren’t the best, his mother didn’t earn enough to support three children, and even though his two older siblings could just about support themselves, Patrick very much still needed her help. But Patrick had still been hopeful and tried to be happy. A golden boy. Patrick from the strawberry field with his hair the colour of straw and his eyes the colour of the ocean and a smile that made the corners of Pete’s mouth twitch upwards.

Kindness.

That was what Patrick had been. Kind.

Not after the accident though. Suddenly, he looked tired whenever Pete saw him. He didn’t bring him strawberries as frequently anymore, and Pete figured at first that it was because of the season, there weren’t any strawberries in winter, not locally, Patrick had explained, but it was May now and Patrick still hadn’t picked up his weekly visits again. Maybe there were no strawberries in May.

Pete had decided to go and see Patrick this time, he needed to ask what Joe had been supposed to. They’d been struggling, guitarists had come in to do rhythm and Joe had been singing lately, he was good, better than Pete had expected, but he wasn’t Brendon. And they _needed_ a permanent guitarist.  
He found Patrick in the veg aisle, this was his winter job, according to Joe, which confused Pete because it wasn’t winter, but whatever.  
Patrick was wearing a navy blue polo t-shirt and a green apron as he stacked carrots into boxes.

“Hey,” he greeted, causing Patrick to spin around and knock a box of radishes off the cart. “Fuck!” Pete bent down to help the boy who was on his hands and knees, hurriedly collecting the food off the floor. “Sorry, Patrick.” He looked tired. He always looked tired. And oddly grey. Could humans be grey? Evidently they could, because he was. He’d put on a bit of weight, as well, but that wasn’t anywhere close to troubling in Pete’s books. “What do you want, Pete?” The cold tone was harshly unfamiliar. He just sounded so… done. “I, look, umh, Joe should be doing this, actually, he wanted to but…” he didn’t miss the irritated glance thrown at him. “How’ve you been?” Patrick huffed, it was almost a chuckle, but Pete didn’t understand why he’d be laughing. Unless it was sarcasm. He _needed_ to get better at sarcasm. “Yeah, great, whatever, look, why are you here? You never visit me, that’s not how this works.” Pete frowned until he realized that he had, in fact, never _ever_ visited Patrick. “I, uh, I wanted to ask you something…”  
“Go on.” Patrick sounded annoyed. “Look, umh, Brendon quit the band.” The laugh Patrick let out scared Pete, it didn’t sound warm or kind at all, it sounded mean. “right, is that why I’ve not heard from him? You getting me involved in your cat fight?” Pete hunched his shoulders “he moved to Vegas a few months ago.”

“Oh…” the way Patrick’s frame visibly dropped and his face fell in disappointment told Pete he hadn’t known and Pete was proud of himself for putting two and two together, until the penny dropped. _Oh god, Brendon was his friend. He was his friend and he didn’t even say goodbye._  
“Anyway, we… need a guitarist.” Patrick shrugged. “And?”  
“Well…” Pete awkwardly stepped from one foot to another “you play guitar.” Patrick’s ears twitched a little. “Yeah.”  
God, he was gonna get him to spell it out, wasn’t he? “Well, I… do you wanna be our rhythm guitarist?” Patrick finally looked at him, but Pete couldn’t read his expression. “No.” Oh.

“Why not?”  
“Because I’m a drummer.”

Pete sighed. “Look, we… I know you need the money. You have a shit tonne of medical bills still left to pay, both from your mother’s accident and your suicide attempt and this band is making an okay amount, but we can’t do it without a permanent guitarist and you’re our best bet and we all want you Patrick you could write music and… what?” he trailed off when he saw Patrick had gone cold and rigid. “What?”  
He moved his mouth but no words came out, he looked like a fish. “Patrick, what is it?”  
“You-“ he croaked “how… do you know?” Pete frowned “What? The bills? Well, it’s kinda obvious, mate, y-“  
“No, no… the… my… _incident_.”

Oh.

“I, umh, I kinda… I just knew, you know.” Actually, Pete thought, he didn’t know why he knew. He hadn’t known until just now, he’d had no idea, it had just slipped from his subconscious right out of his mouth.

And suddenly everything made sense. He wrapped his arms around Patrick, holding him tightly, squeezing him, the way he’d got used to in the last few months since he’d got there, Joe had told him it’s comforting sometimes. Patrick tentatively patted him on the back and Pete was shocked to find himself crying. _Patrick’s not crying, why are you crying?_ _You never ever cry. And that’s not even figurative._

Honestly, Pete wasn’t even familiar with the concept of taking your own life until he’d read a book called _The Perks Of Being A Wallflower_ , which, for some reason, was apparently a book for girls. How a book could have a gender was a mystery to Pete, especially since he’d liked it, and he wasn’t a girl. Joe had explained the concept of suicide to him when he’d asked, though he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around feeling so much emotion that it was too much. That’s how he understood it, at least.

“Hey Pete, it’s okay, don’t cry, I’m okay,” Pete felt a thumb gently brush away the dampness on his face and saw Patrick smiling. It was a bit off. It wasn’t the golden boy’s smile, but it was a smile. It was something. “Yeah,” he sighed, “yeah, I’ll be in your band.”

Pete bought a box of strawberries on his way out, but somehow, they weren’t as sweet as the ones Patrick used to bring him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey rats!  
> So, I hope you're (still) enjoying this. I'm aware that mental health isn't that objective, but Pete is clueless so it's just the way he understands it. And the whole building mental walls is somewhat personal experience. And I hope I can build on Patrick's mentality a bit, I'm not sure if I got it here. (Also I have to progress the story, I have been known to get hooked up on one thing for ages and never actually get on with the plot).  
> I'd be really grateful for feedback, as any author on here, I believe.  
> I wanted to tell you something but it's gone now oh well. Anyway, thanks for reading (thanks for my first bookmark on this!), have a nice day/night and stay safe x


	4. They decided they would try and make it

“Are you ready for FALL OUT BOY?” The crowd roared in response to the guy calling out their name. Patrick was fidgeting backstage, his nerves threatening to get the better of him. He’d taken his glasses off and put them aside for the show, that way, he couldn’t see the crowd. It helped a little. His hat was pulled down low over his eyes as he walked onto the stage and stood behind the mic, he should be used to this by now, but in all honesty, he still hadn’t forgiven Pete for making him do this.

“No, Patrick, you’ve GOTTA sing, dude! Your voice is amazing!” Patrick had insisted he wasn’t going to sing, but Pete had heard him showing Joe what to do with this song he’d just written. He’d turned to the other two members of his band for help, but they’d just shrugged, Joe had even said Pete was right, he had the best voice out of the four of them, he had to be the singer. It took them, well, it took Pete a week of nagging and a lot of complimentary ice cream, and, admittedly, the fact that the usually impartial or even disinterested Pete Wentz was so taken with _his_ voice to the point where he'd pretty much be kneeling in front of him begging, but he’d agreed. Why had he agreed?

Patrick would, however, be lying if he said he didn’t like it at all. This was his music, these kids were singing along to his songs, and they liked it. It felt _good_. It had been a long time since Patrick felt good. He’d helped his mum pay off her bills, he was living with Joe and Pete (not all in Joe’s flat, they’d moved) and Andy lived a few blocks away with his girlfriend.  
He was just thinking things couldn’t get much better when their manager (yes, they were a proper band with a proper manager and a proper album and shit) told them they were going on tour after the show had finished. A small, east-coast thing, but a tour none the less. The feeling of reward that overwhelmed him almost made up for the fact that he'd barely managed to keep his nervous voice steady during their short set, and by the looks on the faces of his friends, he wasn't the only one who felt like that. Joe was beaming, obviously proud of the fact that, technically, this was his band, his baby, Andy was smiling widely, huddled behind his drum kit - Patrick was a little jealous of that, still - bathing in the applause, and Patrick felt a pang of affection shoot through him when he spotted the glow in Pete's eyes. He'd never been aware of how that broad, charminf smile never reached his eyes, not until the first time he saw it, right there, on that stage.  
  The four of them got a bottle of Champagne that night, but swore to only open it when they knew they’d made it, and drank some of the old scotch had nicked off his mum until they all fell asleep in their living room, huddled together in a huge mess, smelly, sweaty, slightly tipsy, but happy. Really happy.

***

The van was a total wreck. Patrick nursed the cut on Pete’s forehead with some disinfectant and a band-aid, telling him off when he winced at the stinging sensation. Joe was _not_ best pleased. None of them were. They were stuck, half-way through a tour, in the middle of nowhere, with no transport and nothing but a dingy McDonald’s nearby. At least, Pete thought, they didn’t have to wait in the snow.   
Patrick was the only one without any injuries, thankfully, they’d all got away lightly, but Patrick the bastard didn’t have a single bruise on his pristine white skin. He’d been asleep in the back when it had happened, cushioned by, well, his cushion, and Pete, who had immediately wrapped himself around the boy when he saw what was coming.   
He didn’t know why he kept doing this, but he noticed he’d been putting himself in the line of fire for Patrick a lot recently, both literally and figuratively. Patrick, in turn, tended to his wounds, again, the literal and the figurative ones. It worked. It was a good relationship. A bit like when they were writing.

They were working on their second album, Pete was doing the words, he’d always liked words, he’d always liked to express himself, and something about his words made people happy, well, it made them sad, but that somehow made them happy, Pete didn’t understand it, but as long as it worked, that didn’t matter.  
“It’s art, Pete,” Patrick had explained once, “it doesn’t have to make sense, it just needs to be understood.”

Patrick was sometimes shocked when he read what Pete handed him, sometimes asked him who hurt him or what hurt him, but Pete had no answers. Truth was, he wasn’t hurting. Truth was, he didn’t feel a thing. So he wrote about what he thought it would be like to feel things. It was good for him, he enjoyed it. Like writing a play with himself as the main character. And Patrick gave him the soundtrack. Patrick was good with music, it just… flowed out of him. It was like his entire being was music, all he was and everything he did was music. And music made Pete happy.

He had felt relieved that night two years ago when their manager had announced they were going on tour and Patrick had smiled, properly smiled, his beaming, golden smile, maybe, Pete had thought, maybe Patrick was better again. Maybe he wasn’t sick anymore.

He certainly seemed happy, not all the time, of course, nobody was happy all the time, and Patrick's unhappy days were hard for him to witness, he hated seeing the kid retreat into his head, close hmself off, and then pretend nothing had ever been wrong when confronted. It had taken Pete months to figure it out, he hadn't even picked up on those subtle not-so-subtle phases of isolation Patrick put himself through at first, and he was quite proud of how good he'd got at reading his little friend. But the happy days were starting to outweigh the sad ones. Even now, with their van and a lot of their gear wrecked, he just seemed annoyed and frustrated. Joe was the angry one. Then again, Joe was always the angry one. Maybe he’d write something about Joe one day, though that would probably make him angry.   
“Well, it’s fucked,” he announced to the small group of people crowded around their table, “I’m honestly not sure how we’re gonna get out of here tonight, they closed the road in both directions, anybody know anywhere we can stay?” Andy told them there was something of a Motel a mile or so down the road, so they packed what they could in the second van (the one that had their small but existing crew in it) and walked there. “I’m sharing with Andy!” Joe announced before they even got there. Pete didn’t have a problem with that but Patrick started complaining “hey no, I wanna share with Andy! Why do you get to share with Andy?”   
“Because,” Joe slapped the brim of his cap over his eyes, “you hog the covers. And Pete takes up half the bed. I’m not competing with either of you.” Patrick rolled his eyes and Andy chuckled, “Joe gets to share with me,” he decided, “but I’ve gotta warn you, I fart in my sleep.”

That had, thankfully, been a joke, but it kept Joe on edge for quite some time none the less. The fact that Patrick hogged the covers, however, was very much the truth, so Pete found himself squeezed next to Patrick in the small, single bed, exposed to the chill of the cheap motel room. He shuffled closer to his sleeping bandmate for warmth, his front pressing against Patrick’s back completely. He was asleep, he didn’t notice. It was oddly comforting, being huddled up to somebody like this, somebody you liked. Pete felt the smallest tug in the pit of his stomach and a smile creep across his face as he wrapped an arm around Patrick’s front and drifted off to sleep.

***

Patrick was shitting bricks. Okay, they’d been doing this for, what, four years? But they now had a two hit singles and a hit album, people were expecting stuff of him, and he knew, he just _knew_ he couldn’t live up to those expectations. He couldn’t.   
He’d been pacing his room all night, oblivious to the squeaky floorboard he kept stepping on. He was fiddling with one of his drumsticks as a means of distraction, but it wasn’t doing much for him at all. In fact, he wasn’t sure if it wasn’t making him even more nervous.   
He practically jumped out of his skin when he saw a figure in his doorway. “Hey buddy,” Pete said groggily. “Sorry.” Was all he whispered in reply. “What for?”  
“I’m keeping you up with my stupid walking,” Patrick waved his hand in front of him before flopping down onto the edge of his bed with a sigh. “Look, I got you something. I was gonna give them to you tomorrow after our TV performance,” Patrick tensed at the mention of it, “but now’s as good a time as any.” Patrick raised his eyebrows in surprise “Oh my god, how long have you been hiding those for?” He lifted one of the strawberries to his lips and bit into it, groaning a little at the taste, “oh my God, Pete, they taste like…”  
“The ones you used to pick? Yeah, I got them from the same place.” Patrick blushed a little and then pulled his brows into a frown “how did you know where I used to work.”  
“Joe told me.” Patrick felt warm and fuzzy, Pete had gone out of his way to get these for him, it was thoughtful of him to get strawberries at all, let alone the ones he used to pick. And boy, they tasted so much better when he hadn’t spent hours bent over them in the glaring sun. “Thanks, Pete.” He said through a mouthful of juicy, red fruit. He could see Pete’s teeth gleaming even in the darkness and knew he was smiling one of those big, genuine smiles that had taken him a while to master but now were totally infatuating. He could…

Patrick shook his head and offered a strawberry to his best friend, who dipped his head and pulled it off its stalk, still being held by Patrick, with his teeth. They sat there, on Patrick’s bed, feeding each other strawberries until the sun came up (or the basket was empty, Patrick wasn’t quite sure which came first) and Patrick knew, in that moment, that Pete was something special he had to hang onto before he disappeared.

-

The evening after their performance, they headed out to a bar, none of them had ever been there, but it was nice, wooden paneling covering the walls, the smell of whiskey filling the small room, and Patrick got absolutely shitfaced for the first time in his life.

Sure, he’d been drunk, or at least tipsy, before, but he knocked back one drink after another, whether in celebration or to calm his nerves, he wasn’t sure, but he wanted to, he could afford to and he did.

Things started to get a bit fuzzy around the fifth drink, to the point where he was only aware of snippets of his surroundings. Everything sounded like he was underwater, but he didn’t feel like he was drowning. The next thing he noticed was how everything felt too tight, so he pushed whoever was sat next to him away, going by the complaining that followed, it was Joe, then Pete’s voice, then Pete’s arm, Pete’s body, Pete, he was walking, Pete, cold, Pete, dark, Pete… and then he blacked out.

-

Pete waltzed into Patrick’s room carrying his usual bowl of cereal served with almond milk, making a point to loudly slam the door behind him. “MORNING SUNSHINE!” He called, louder than necessary, causing Patrick to stick a hand out from under his duvet and flip him off as he yanked open the blinds. “aww, Pattycakes, don’t be like that!” he sat on the edge of the bed and placed the bowl on the bedside table. “wakey wakey!”  
“mmmmmh fckff.” Pete mocked disbelief “Patrick Martin Stump! I cannot believe you just told me, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, your band mate, your best friend, your partner in crime, to ‘fuck off’, this calls for punishment!” He reached down and slid his hands underneath the duvet, his fingers finding Patrick’s sides. His figure squirmed below Pete’s hand as he tickled him mercilessly, loud guffaws of laughter filling the room. “Stop, STOP!” Patrick yelped helplessly and Pete’s heart felt like it was going to explode. He crawled further onto the bed until he was kneeling next to the squealing man and increased the speed. “Maximum tickling!”   
“NO NO NO!” Patrick was desperately trying to shove Pete off him. “Pete, please, PLEASE, Pete!” he cried loudly. Pete wrapped his arms around the tiny man and pulled him into his lap as he giggled “you’re fuckin’ adorable, Trick, you know that?” Patrick grunted as he rubbed his eyes, elbowing Pete in the ribs as he did so, though that part was most likely deliberate. Pete didn’t let go of Patrick, he just sat there, cuddling him from behind, his face pressed against his cheek, and felt the gently rise and fall of his friend’s belly underneath his arms.

“Okay Pete, you can let me go now. Please.” He gave him one last squeeze before loosening his grip. “I brought you breakfast!” Patrick’s eyes lit up as he spotted the small, blue and white bowl next to them. “Pete, you’re the best! Thanks! I’m not letting you move out any time soon!” Pete chuckled.

“How… how’ve you been doing?” The question was carefully placed into the conversation. Patrick just shrugged.  
Pete knew he’d been slipping away, he had that distant expression on his face again, not all the time, not even often, but certainly more frequently than Pete would want. Frankly, he was very pleased with himself for noticing these things. He wasn’t actually sure why, though, the bad was doing well, they hadn’t fought or anything, people wanted to see them… why was Patrick sad?

“Please tell me.” He sighed heavily and rubbed his face, “I don’t know, Pete, this is just… it’s all a lot,  y’know. I just feel there’s so much pressure to be perfect, everybody thinks I am and I’m not, I can’t be. And then there’s the music…” he trailed off, leaving Pete confused, “everybody loves your music, Patrick!”  
“Except they don’t, do they? So many people feel let down! I should just have done Take This To Your Grave again…” Pete takes Patrick’s face in his hands and turns it to look at him. “No, don’t ever think like that, Trick.” He leaned forwards until their foreheads were touching, “you are way too talented to make the same thing a million times. Will people say mean things? Yeah. Will people say you’re just doing this for money? Yeah. But look at all the support you’ve got! At all the people who love and support what you do, what we do! That’s worth something, right, Trick?” Patrick nodded half-heartedly. “Yeah, yeah, I guess.” Pete pressed his lips to his friend’s forehead, “you’re amazing, Patrick, don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. I’ve got you, I’ve got your back, I believe in you and I can take the shit they fling at us, I don’t mind.” Patrick didn’t reply, silently eating his cereal. Pete got up and plodded towards the door. “Pete,” he turned around just before shutting it behind him “you’re right, by the way.”  
“Right about what?”  
“You are my best friend.”  
Pete didn’t even try to stop the grin that split his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> sorry this seems half-arsed, I didn't have time to edit properly and I didn't wanna let you wait even longer. I was GONNA upload last Friday, but, well... we all know what happened. And then it took me until Sunday to recover, which is when I went back to uni, then I was gonna edit it yesterday and just when I opened ao3, Pete tweeted me so I flipped out a lottle, so now I'm doing my best to give you something semi-decent during my lunch break.  
> Apologies, I was gonna add a scene but oh well.  
> I'll probably upload the next, shorter bit soon, maybe even this evening, but I felt it deserved its own chapter.  
> As always, I'd be really happy about comments, I have no idea if this is good or whatever, so please let me know!   
> I hope you enjoy it, and stay safe x  
> TOMORROW GUYS EEEK!


	5. On their own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW// check tags!!

Patrick was holding Pete’s hand, trying his best to make his tears stay behind his eyelids. Pete looked so small and pale against the white sheets, his matted black hair clinging to his forehead, a stark contrast to his colourless face. But he was breathing. His heart was beating. He was going to be okay.  
Patrick gently stroked over his knuckles with his thumb, willing him to wake up so Patrick could kick his ass. How _dare_ he try to leave him? How dare he?

“Pete, you idiot,” he muttered, dropping his head onto the sheets draped over his friend’s still body.

The call he’d got from the hospital had been one of the worst things ever to have happened to him. First of all, he was surprised to be Pete’s emergency contact, a little flattered, to be honest, but then they’d told him that it wasn’t just a broken foot after jumping out of bedroom windows or a broken nose from flinging his bass about. Patrick had gone as numb as he imagined Pete had been and rushed to the hospital as quickly as he could. He was going to be fine, Pete was going to be fine.

But it still hurt. It hurt so much.

Pete stirred and his eyes flickered open. Patrick held his breath as Pete let out a long, stuttered one, glancing around, eyes darting from left to right until they settled on their intertwined hands. He frowned. “Patrick. Wha-“

“Shhh, Pete, you’re okay.” Patrick lifted himself out of the chair to bend over his friend so he could gently stroke his forehead, “you’re okay Pete, you’re okay.” He was saying it to himself more than anything, to assure himself that it was true.   
“Why are you crying? What happened? Why am I here?” Patrick wiped at his face in irritation, cursing the tears that had fallen from his swollen eyes for giving away his feelings so blatantly.

“Pete, you, uh… what do you remember?” Pete looked his in the eyes as though all the answers he wanted were to be found there before his mouth dropped open in contemplation. “I… was in a car. My car. In a parking lot. And the radio was on. And-“

If Patrick had to pinpoint the times in his life his heart broke, this would be the first one. Pete’s expression fell into something between shock, despair and disappointment, maybe even shame, as the realization of what he had done hit him at full force. “Oh God.”  
Patrick gently stroked his arm and cheek as he cried to himself, not trying to stifle the sobs or hold back the tears. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there like that before Pete calmed himself and once again met his gaze, brown eyes swimming with regret.

“I’m sorry, Trick.”  
Patrick knew he meant it. “It’s okay, Pete, it’s alright, you’re okay.”

“I don’t know what I was doing, I… it just… Oh God, I don’t know what I was doing.” Patrick wriggled onto the bed next to the friend he’d nearly lost and held him close, cradling his head against his chest. “All that matters is that you’re okay, yeah? You’re gonna be okay.” And then, more quietly, so Pete wouldn’t hear, he added “we’re going to be okay.”

“Patrick… can you sing for me?” Pete broke the silence that had settled around them. “Please.” Patrick cleared his voice and started humming a tune he’d come up with a while ago before adding scraps of lyrics he remembered from Pete’s scribblings.

_I will sing to you every day if it will take away the pain._

***

It wasn’t until Patrick’s 22nd birthday that they spoke of it again.

Patrick didn’t want anybody to make a big thing out of it, he didn’t much like being the centre of attention, and he got more than enough as it was, without there being a special day all about him every year. But, to his bad luck, he was friends with both Pete Wentz and Joe Trohman, one of which loved parties, the other was good at them.  
And, to be honest, Patrick enjoyed it. Even Brendon came. He brought his new bandmates with him. New. They’d been together on-and-off as long as Fall Out Boy, but somehow, they seemed so much younger. And they only just released their debut album, whilst Patrick was currently writing music for their third full-length one. But they were good. Different. Pete had signed them, without hesitation, and it wasn’t down to Ryan’s begging either “I just let him do that for fun, I was always gonna give them a shot. Brendon’s a good guy,” he’d said.

The record label was doing Pete good. It kept him busy, kept him working, gave him something serious to do. Not that the band wasn’t serious, but being a Rockstar was something very different to running a business. It was a distraction, and a productive one, at that. Patrick was happy with how well it was going, Pete really had an ear for a good act and a real sense of what would take off. Or maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, maybe people wanted to hear Pete Wentz’ bands, maybe he was just influential enough for that sort of stuff, now.

He’d still hand Patrick things that worried him, though. Just the other day, he’d looked for Pete after reading the lyrics that had been titled _Golden_ , wanting to give him a hug and let him know it was okay, he knew the truth, he knew who he was, he wouldn’t leave him behind. But then he saw Pete happily cooking pasta and singing along to some crappy pop station at the top of his voice, he didn’t have the heart to spoil the mood.

It was also in that instant that Patrick finally admitted it to himself. It was real. He couldn’t deny it. It hurt.

Despite it being his party, despite him having a way better time than he’d thought, Patrick went to his room around midnight, tired and yearning for his bed.   
He was smiling to himself as he slipped underneath his covers, the party still going on downstairs, but he trusted his friends to not wreck his house and he was no stranger to sleeping with noise.

“ _Patrick”_ Patrick’s eyes snapped open to see a familiar figure against the light bleeding through the open door. “Pete? Wha-“ Pete shuffled into the room, shutting the door behind him. A grin was plastered across his face and he was hiding something behind his back. “Pete what are you up to?”  
“Haven’t given you your present yet!” the mattress gave way below Pete’s weight as he sat down next to the bulk of duvet that was covering Patrick’s body. “Close your eyes.” Patrick furrowed his eyebrows but couldn’t resist Pete’s puppy pout.

He was alarmed for about 0.2 seconds when he felt something pushing against his lips but willingly opened his mouth for Pete to push the strawberry in, pulling it off the stalk. It was odd doing it this way around. It was nice, not from the field he used to work on, but just as good. “Mmmh, where did you get these?” Pete winked “a magician never reveals his secrets.” That earned him an eye-roll.

They sat together, in the darkness, eating strawberries like children hiding from their parents below a blanket fort. It was comfy, it was warm. It felt like home. _Pete feels like home._

They barely spoke, but Patrick could tell Pete was as happy as him, right then, in that moment, all their nerves, expectations and anxiety pushed aside as they finished off the bowl of fruit together.

Maybe that was why Pete finally decided to open up, to finally tell him, after four months of never so much as mentioning it. It took Patrick a little by surprise, although in retrospect, it really shouldn’t have.

“I felt so empty, Trick. I looked at Andy and Joe and you and you were so… alive and I just felt empty, all the time.” Patrick frowned, “Pete, what are you saying?”  
“I’m saying, you… you were so much, so full of emotion and I wanted that, I wanted- I wanted to feel something, Trick. Just once. I've tried so hard to be like you and it didn't work. I could fuck shit up as much as I wanted, I could break as many bones as I wanted. I've lost count of how many people I've fucked and, consequently, fucked up, but it just-" he squeezed his eyes shut as though he was trying to remember a distant memory he may have had. Like he was trying to place a scene to a movie he wasn't even sure existed. "So I went to a pharmacy, bought the first best thing I could find and took all of it. I just thought... you were feeling too much when you- so I thought I might-”

Patrick stared at the dark figure in front of him, there wasn’t enough light to make out an expression, but he knew Pete wasn’t looking at him.   
he suddenly felt angry. “I was fucking depressed, Pete! I have a shit load of anxiety that threatens to suffocate me every time I leave this room and the self-esteem to match! I know what people say about me, I know I’m the fat one, I know I’m the ugly one, I know I’m the one nobody wants around, and it kills me! Hell, I’m terrified of this album! I already know people will hate it, I’ve written four songs and I _know_ I’ll get shit for them, Jesus Christ, and you want to feel _that?_ I can’t sleep at night! And then I have to fucking pretend everything is alright because I _don't_ want to load that onto your shoulders and then you go and just fucking... I can't believe you!”

He didn’t realize he was getting louder until he finished, taking deep breaths, trying to keep it together.

This wasn’t Pete’s fault.

It wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, I… that just kinda burst out.” Pete seemed to be shaking his head, “no you’re right, it was selfish and stupid and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Patrick reached forward and held Pete’s face in his hands, palms pressed against his cheeks. “Pete, god, it’s not. It’s not your fault. And it certainly isn't selfish. But there is help, please, if you… if you ever feel like that again, please, get help. Don’t leave me hanging, man. Please don’t.”

Patrick wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but next thing he knew was he could feel Pete’s hot breath against his face, their noses were touching as the older man leaned in closer… closer…

And then fireworks went off.

It was like a fucking movie or something, the cheesiest cliché Patrick had ever experienced, and he’d read some of Pete’s worse lyrics. All there was was Pete- his lips, his hands, his body… his tongue.

Patrick wrapped his fingers into his dark hair, pulling him closer as their mouths worked against each other, it wasn’t desperate or hot or lusting, it was so much more than that. Pete’s lips were thick and soft, gently brushing against his own, tongue gently pushing between them until it was slipped into Patrick’s mouth where it met his own. It wasn’t enough and too much at the same time.

And it tasted like strawberries. That realization made him chuckle into Pete’s open mouth, which made him pull away, a small smile toying at the corners of his mouth. “What’s the matter?”   
“You taste of strawberries.” Pete chuckled and pulled Patrick closer to his chest, not saying anything, they just sat together, listening to the party downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TODAY!  
> Well, kinda appropriate that I'm posting this on Patrick's birthday haha.  
> By the way, there's this thing going on on twitter #SoulPunkDay, basically showing our appreciation and stuff. Check it out on @era_fob's profile or @ruscanelise and @dontboreus tweeted about it too, I think.  
> Anyway, t -6.5 hours EEEEK I'm hyped.  
> As usual, I really would appreciate feedback in the form of a comment or two, I really wanna know what people think I'm getting kinda anxious about it haha.  
> Stay safe guys and try not to lose it too much later on ;)xx


	6. You're all I've ever known

Pete used every opportunity he could to kiss Patrick, to cuddle him, to be close to him. He’d never really had anything that _meant_ something, but Patrick did. Patrick was important. He wanted to be near Patrick all the time.

Patrick smiled a lot, he laughed a lot, he was his golden boy, completely and utterly. How ironic that the title of one of his lowest songs was the adjective he used to describe the best thing that ever happened to him. They wrote together, in the same room, that is, bouncing ideas back and forth, living off their mutual creative energy, they lived apart, but spent so much time together, it was hard to tell where personal space ended and where shared space began.

Sometimes, he would have his days where Pete had to coax him out of bed and force him to get dressed and functioning. On some days, he couldn't even convince Patrick to crawl out of his room, on those days, Pete would sit down on the floor opposite him, cross-legged, absentmindedly listening to the strumming of the guitar and the low hum of Patrick's voice as he jotted down words that shot through his mind like stray arrows.  
But on a lot of days, Patrick would wake up, mutter something incoherent, roll over, sleep some more, wake up again, stretch, sleep some more, wake up and grin at Pete. Those were the best days, the ones where the first thing Patrick did when he was fully-awake was smile at Pete. Those were the days he'd spend bouncing around his house, tidying, cooking, playing video games, as he hummed long-forgotten jazz standards or Nat King Cole songs.

Listening to Patrick sing in the shower had also become one of Pete's primary hobbies, it was even easier when Patrick came to stay at his place, seeing as Pete's bathroom joined onto his bedroom directly. He could lie in the King-sized in the morning, reading his book, and hear the tiny blond man singing his heart out underneath a jet of steaming water. It was almost domestic. Pete even got a fucking dog. He loved Patrick more than he loved Pete, but it wasn't really a surprise.  
Honestly, Pete couldn't fault anybody that loved Patrick, he felt loving Patrick redeemed anybody.

Well, he thought that most of the time. Studio Patrick wasn't quite as laid-back, kind and open. He was... okay, a total tyrant. the other three learned relatively quickly that angering the Stumpmaster in the studio was not a good idea when he'd punched Pete in the face after they'd disagreed on lyrics.  
Besides, was there a reason to complain? Patrick was amazing at what he did and he knew it. In all honesty, it warmed Pete's heart to see that there was one thing Patrick trusted himself to do well.

They were going all-out on the album, stopping at nothing. “This is our biggest one yet, Pete,” Patrick said one day, “if this is a flop, we won’t ever get this opportunity again. We need to go all-out, we need to do _everything_.”   
He wasn’t kidding. They recorded with a fucking orchestra. They were on top of the world.

The album hit number one. They were ecstatic. The day they got the charts and their album was sitting proudly on top, they were huddled in Pete’s living room, sharing a party-sized pizza. Pete had started bouncing up and down on his own couch so vigorously it broke. They weren’t aiming for this, they weren’t too bothered about chart positions, but now they were there, they might as well celebrate, right?

Patrick was grinning when he walked out of the bathroom… and right into Pete. “Hey.” Pete dipped down and briefly let their lips touch as he wrapped his arms around Patrick’s waist and let his arms rest on his lower back. Pete could tell that Patrick was trying to ignore the fact that his stomach was keeping their faces so far apart. “I’m proud of you,” Pete’s voice was low, but his eyes were gleaming with joy. Patrick giggled like a stereotypical teenage girl. “Why?”  
“Because,” Patrick felt warm lips against his ear and his breath hitched “You. Are. Amazing.” Pete kissed all along his jaw and down his neck, nuzzling at his collarbone. “You wrote that album, Trick.”  
“You helped,” the crack in the smaller man’s voice made Pete’s lips tug into a smile, “mmh, but lyrics don’t mean shit without good music.”  
“And music doesn’t mean shit without good lyrics. This is your success as much as mine, Pete. And Joe’s. and Andy’s. this was all of us, Pete. We did it.” He never wanted to forget this image. This image of Patrick close to him, his arms around his neck, a broad grin revealing white teeth, eyes dancing with happiness. Pete wanted to hold onto this and never let go. For the briefest second, he felt a tugging in his gut. He _felt_ it. It was scary, but more than that, it was exciting.

He kissed his golden boy again and again, not noticing how he pushed him against the wall and how their bodies were pressed together until Patrick let out the smallest of moans.  
Pete felt his stomach clench and tried to not let it show as he gave Patrick a final peck on the lips and pulled away with a smile. He didn’t seem to notice, too hot and flustered to be paying enough attention.

They opened the champagne that evening. It wasn’t as good as they’d anticipated, but it didn’t really matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, the new semester started and I'm stressed/busy/lazy/not feeling great.  
> Anyway, I'm still blasting Young And Menace on full volume ayee I love it!   
> I know this is really REALLY short (like 2k shorter than my average chapter short) but it felt like a natural ending to the chapter. I'm not there over the weekend, but I'll try to update on Monday.  
> I'd be happy about feedback, I'm really not sure about whether people are enjoying this story or not?  
> Anyway, see you around, stay safe my dudes xx


	7. How I miss yesterday

_Sell Out Boy._

_Fakes._

_Commercial._

_Fat._

_Emos._

_Mainstream._

Patrick tried to tell himself they were just words. They shouldn’t even bother him, they weren’t true (except maybe _‘fat’_. And _‘mainstream’_ , though he still failed to see why that was considered something bad), but they cut deep. He didn’t know why he read these things. It started out when he’d seen two praising reviews, heralding his songwriting and his voice, making him feel relevant, making him feel good.   
But he couldn’t stop at that.  
And the depths of the internet held nothing good for anybody.

The cover of his laptop was gently shut in front of him and Patrick didn’t have to look up to know Pete did it. “I told you not to look at that stuff,” his voice wasn’t accusing in any way, but rather soft and calm, a trace of concern wound into it.   
“’m sorry,” Patrick’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” Pete sat down next to him and pulled him into his lap, “I want you to stop hurting yourself like this. It’s not good for you. And besides, why bother yourself with it? Why give them any of their time? It’s all bullshit, Trick, they’re just bitter that we made it and they didn’t.”  
“But some of them are musicians. Or people that know music.” Pete rested his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, “yeah but are they rich and famous? Patrick? Are they successful?” He shook his head hesitantly. “There you go. It doesn’t matter what the fuck they say. People love our stuff, they love your writing and they love you.”

“But I _am_ fat,” he prodded at his stomach as though it was to blame for all his problems. Well, maybe it was. “yes you are. So what? You’re fucking beautiful. Why does one exclude the other? You’re beautiful, you’re golden.” Pete placed a gentle kiss on Patrick’s cheek and started drawing circles on his belly with his index finger.

Patrick knew Pete was right, that was the worst of it, he knew it, but he still didn’t believe it. No, he didn’t want to hear it. It was like he wanted to have all the criticism and hate thrown at him, to drown him, to give him something to fuel the fire of self-loathing. And that scared him. He twisted so he could bury his face in the crook of Pete’s neck where he could pretend the outside world didn’t exist and all that mattered was Pete’s heat and smell.

Pete smelled of home.

A hand gently stroked the hair at the back of his neck, soothing him and steadying his breathing before it got out of control.

 _“You’re my golden boy,”_ Pete whispered, _“and I’m not letting you go.”_

***

Pete could feel.

And it scared him.

He felt he couldn’t get through to Patrick, he was slipping out of his grasp and it was like trying to cling to sand. Every time Pete tried to adjust his grip on him, a bit more slipped away.

He was at Joe’s house, they were meeting over a beer, just the two of them, no work, no band, just old friends catching up. As if they didn’t spend most of their lives together. Joe was laid back and apparently oblivious to the negative comments spread about him via the demon that was the Internet, it was doing Pete good, being able to talk without having negativity stain the conversation. Not that he _didn’t_ want to talk to Patrick, he wanted to take care of him and look after him, but he needed some space once in a while, he felt like he was drowning sometimes.  
In all honesty, hat thought made his guilt worse. If _he_ felt he was drowning, how did Patrick feel?

But Joe was a good distraction, all he did was talk about metal bands, Star Wars and occasionally how much his current girlfriend was annoying him. Pete made a mental note to remember that for Andy’s best man speech, he knew Joe was completely infatuated with this girl, he could tell. Joe only complained when it was important to him.

“Anyway, talking about love life, how’s Patrick?” Pete nearly choked on his beer, having to ask Joe to vigorously slap his back so he could breathe. “Oh come on, how could we _not_ know? Were you trying to keep it a secret?”

Pete shrugged “well… not per se, but… is it that obvious?” Joe raised both eyebrows at him, answering that question. He sighed. “Patrick, he… I don’t know, there’s been some negative stuff and it’s really getting to him. He’s really bad, Joe. He cries all the time and when he’s not crying, he’s eating, which doesn’t bother me, but then he’s sad about being fat and then he eats more and then he cries more and… god, I don’t know what to do, it’s breaking me.”  
“Wow, okay, well that’s not the answer I was expecting, but thanks for the honesty.” Pete sighed. He shouldn’t bother Joe with these problems. “Listen, d’you remember when we first started the band? And Brendon was our singer? Remember how _pissed_ Patrick was?” Pete shot him a sideways glance, “yeah because you basically replaced him with Andy.” Joe protested: “No I didn’t! Our other band had broken up months earlier because our bassist was his ex’ brother!”   
“We spoke about it a few months back, he said he knew it was probably bullshit but that’s how he felt.” Joe waved his arms around in a wild gesture “See! Proves my point! Patrick will always twist the world so it’s against him. And it sucks and he doesn’t deserve it but he does it anyway.” He took a deep breath “my point is: Patrick has a habit of dragging himself down. Don’t let yourself be torn down with him.” Pete stared at him. He wanted to yell at Joe, to shout and tell him he was wrong, how dare he suggest what he just did?   
but he couldn’t.

He felt nothing.

He wasn’t going to leave Patrick alone, he wasn’t going to let him down, he could be strong for him, of course he could. Pete muffled the voice that was telling him Joe was right.

 

 

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he got back to Patrick’s house, he hoped, of course, that Patrick would appear, smiling and happy, like Pete knew he could be, he expected to find him huddled on the couch over comments he shouldn’t be reading. Pete would go up to him, shut the laptop and cuddle him until he fell asleep.

Patrick standing in front of him in clean, ironed clothes, wearing a blank expression as he calmly said what Pete knew needed saying certainly hadn’t crossed his mind.

His heart shattered.

He didn’t even know he had a heart until that point.

He knew it was right, he knew Patrick was doing this to do exactly what Joe had just said he should do. _“Don’t let yourself be torn down with him.”_  
He did not for a second think Patrick would be the one to ensure that wouldn’t happen.

Pete found himself back in his own house in some baggy hoodie and sweatpants, binge-watching Star Trek and eating strawberries with ice-cream.

They were unsatisfyingly watery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops I lied  
> No I didn't, I totally don't have time to upload this, but I just re-read the whole fic and think it stands quite well the way it is now.  
> Anyway, enjoy this, I'm actually happy with where this story goes now I've read it back again :)  
> Stay safe my dudes xx


	8. And how I let it fade away

it was 4 a. m. The darkness was suffocating.

Pete got lost in it, his mind screaming. He needed to know how Patrick was doing, more so, he needed to let him know it was fine, he got it, he was grateful that Patrick had let him go before drowning him, and he would wait until he was better.

Although, he wasn’t so sure anymore who gave whom up.

All he wanted was to hug him and tell him it was okay, they were okay. But they were in this strange situation where they were together but not _together_. The band was still a thing, Patrick had sent them all a mail the other day outlining a new album (already) and even sending him an mp3 he needed lyrics for. They were still a band. They were still working together. But not _working together._   
the three of them, Pete, Joe and Andy, had quietly agreed that they were going to give the space and support Patrick needed, however he asked for it or however he indicated it, but watching him and not knowing how he was was killing Pete. He’d never realized how good Patrick was at pretending to be okay, there had been a few days where he’d convinced Pete that he was fine again, he was happy, his golden boy was golden again.

But then, when he thought nobody could see him, he wasn’t.

Pete never pushed, he never asked, but the fear of Patrick falling apart was consuming him.

_If you love me let me go._

The lyrics Brendon had sent him a few days ago flooded his mind. They weren’t going to be on the new album, apparently, but Brendon had texted them to him because he’d figured they could be used. Pete hadn’t used them, he’d told his friend they were too good to give away and he should hang on to them until they felt right.

But boy, did they hit home.

Pete reached out towards his notebook and flicked on his light as he did the only thing he knew how to.

He wrote.

_I’ve got troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match…_

***

Patrick stared at nothing, the words he was going to sing still ringing in his ears. Because he was going to sing them, he was sure of that now.

He’d read them again and again, crying a little harder every time, then he’d decided he couldn’t use them before realizing he had to until eventually settling with he _wanted_ to. He wanted to.   
But how? How was he going to make these words come to life in a way that would do them justice?   
He was sitting at his piano, fingers hovering over keys they didn’t know how to play. How had he written hit songs? How had he written _Sugar_ or _Dance Dance_ or _This Ain’t A Scene_? He couldn’t write anything! Not a single chord.

His forehead smacked against the keys in frustration and a dissonant chord rang in Patrick’s ears, making his face scrunch in discomfort. No, he could do this.

In the end, it was one of the quickest-written songs Patrick had ever penned. Once his head was in the right space, the melody flowed as freely as the tears he’d spilled onto the lyric sheet now balanced on the upright piano.

 

 

He finished off the demo and mailed it to Pete with a quick comment on how he liked his idea of getting different people in for the reprise, and how Brendon should certainly be one of them. The next thing he did was call his therapist. Patrick hadn’t seen her in months, pride pushing him to force his way through this all by himself, but something about Pete’s words had woken a spark in him. He wasn’t better, he was nowhere near better, anybody who thinks mental illness is a phase that can be overcome with some encouraging words and a pat on the back is an ignorant dick, but he _wanted_ to get better. He wanted to be okay, so he could make Pete proud. So he could be worthy of Pete.

Patrick had sent him away because he figured letting go of the world would be easier without those whiskey puppy eyes begging him to stay, but in the end, not even undeniable loneliness could make him brave enough to say his goodbyes and decide his time was up.  
He hadn’t thought he’d feel supported rather than  alone when Pete had nodded understandingly rather than angrily, and left without an argument or making Patrick feel like the selfish bastard he knew he was being.  
He often wondered what had changed since last time, when he’d had the guts to fill his body with poison, but he realized after weeks of living in his head that it wasn’t a question of bravery – it was a question of belonging.

He felt like shit, hate was being thrown at him from all directions for no reason other than them not liking what he’d written for them, but at least he knew where he stood as he had insults fired in his direction. At least his band had his back. At least Andy was his voice of reason, at least Joe was shrugging it all off with a sarcastic comment, at lease Pete was there to shield him from the worst and help him rebuild the walls in his head that had been torn down.

They were receiving as many hateful comments as him.

Why was he letting it get to him?

Why was he letting them down?

That was what had made him call his therapist. That’s what motivated him to sit in front of her for 45 minutes, spilling his problems out in front of her, it always seemed hard at first, but once he got going, the emotions flowed.

Once a week.

Every week.

For three months.

Until, finally, one day, he picked up the phone.

“So guys,” he said as the four of them stood in his home studio, “we have an album.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're getting two short chapters today bc I am extra af and don't wanna upload them as one because they feel like two.


	9. Where'd you go?

The armchair in Patrick’s studio was one of Pete’s favourite spots. It was comfy and warm, obviously, but from its position in the corner of the large room (which appeared to be much smaller than it was thanks to the instruments and gear filling it), he had a good view over the area. He’d often sit in it, knees pulled up in front of him, writing words into his notebook, whilst Patrick sat fiddling with a drum-beat or a guitar riff, getting continuously more irritated when it didn’t sound quite like he wanted it to.

He'd missed it.

Sitting in the blue chair reminded Pete of when him and Patrick were a lot more involved with each other’s lives, when he’d wake up and Patrick was there, when he’d come home and Patrick was there, but for now, he was happy to just sit here and watch him playing his piano, shifting from Elton John to Bowie, to Metallica, to Panic! At The Disco, to Prince. Pete wasn’t writing for anything specifically, their album was about to drop, for once, there was no work he could productively do. They were just words.

Maybe some day Patrick could turn them into something beautiful.

_And in the end, I’d do it all again,  
I think you’re my best friend._

One day. But those weren’t the right words for now.

For now, he was happy just watching Patrick and Joe bicker about a key change in one of the tracks they’d been presented wish as Andy sat impatiently on one of the swivelly chairs as they shouted at each other. Pte didn’t care, he liked what Patrick had written, it was different to their other stuff, but then again, every album they’d made had been different to the previous one and he was sure people would understand they couldn’t do the same thing for the rest of their lives. This was Patrick’s baby, it had helped him get through the last couple of months, writing music was catharsis for him in the way that writing words was an attempt of Pete’s to mimic the emotions his surroundings threw at him. This was Patrick’s support, his crutch, his soul and Pete loved it, the raw honesty of this record was on a different level to the previous ones.

Eventually, after Joe had been able to get a few of his ideas in (one. Patrick had been able to compromise on one) and him and Andy had just nodded in agreement, the three of them got up to leave. He already had his jacket on and was heading to the front door when Pete felt a hand wrap around his elbow, making his heart flutter a little in his chest. He stopped dead in shock at the sudden feeling. It was like somebody had sewed a bird into his ribcage that was trying to break free.

Patrick’s eyes were asking him to stay. Of course he couldn’t resist those eyes. He never could, not from the first day they’d met. He’d always been subject to Patrick’s will. He was fascinated by this boy and what he did to him.

“So I umh…” they were sitting on the cream couch in Patrick’s living room, “I got these.” Pete’s eyes widened at the sight of the bowl of strawberries Patrick seemingly produced out of nowhere. Amongst all the weird and wonderful things in this world, strawberries were definitely his favourite of the edible sort, he’d never quite got over the sweet-but-sour taste, especially not since he knew they were _nuts_ of all things.

He knew them instantly.

“I picked them myself. It’s still the same farmer and everything, I wanted to pay him, but he let me have them for free. Something about a thanks for my work or whatever. I honestly think it’s because I’m famous now,” Patrick giggled shyly as Pete nibbled at the fruit he’d been presented with. “I figured you’d accept this as… as…” Patrick trailed off and drew a deep breath, his chest heaving as it filled with air and he turned away so he wasn’t looking at Pete.

He reached out and gently held the blonde’s hand that was nervously clawing at his own jeans as his mouth struggled to find the right words. Pete squeezed it in comfort, not wanting to have to make Patrick say what he was trying to articulate but also curious as to what exactly he was attempting to tell him.

But it ended in an anti-climactic shrug and Patrick shook himself out of his thoughts. “You still like strawberries, right?” Pete nodded almost violently, “fuck yeah!”

Patrick’s awkward smile made him forget the unspoken words hanging between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important q: I have a nsfw chapter lined up, d'you guys want that or nah? Lemme know please otherwise I'll just go with what my friend said.


	10. Their affection fought the cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad porn ayee

The uphill run stagnated as they went on tour. Patrick had hoped being out on the road and doing what he loved, performing the music he was so proud of, would drastically improve his health, but, unfortunately, the world didn’t seem as prepared to change as they did.  
Or, more precisely, the world wasn’t as prepared to let them change as they had hoped.

By the eleventh show, Patrick was exhausted. He was tired. He was sick of being the subject of mockery yet again, all he wanted was to share what he loved and maybe, just maybe, get some love back. He didn’t care about how many kids came to the shows, he didn’t care how many people bought the record, he cared how much kids loved the shows and how much people supported the record.   
But somehow that seemed secondary these days. And amid the praise, there was a lot more hate. He didn’t know if he could take being hit in the chest by a piece of rotten fruit again, he felt like a court jester in a medieval sitcom. This didn’t happen to people. Not in real life.  
He was making an attempt at washing the red stain a tomato had left on his shirt when the bathroom door swung open. Patrick snatched the soaked cotton out of the sink and sprawled it across his bare chest, desperately trying to hide his body from the intruder.

Pete stood in the doorway and stared at him with that horribly sympathetic look he had come to hate. He didn’t need sympathy. He needed either a new brain or a gun to turn his current one off for good.   
But something was different, he could tell. Pete seemed a little smaller than usually, his shoulders a little more hunched, his eyes a little darker. He must be feeling it, too. The backlash, the criticism, he hate. Of course it was getting to him, too. Pete was just better at hiding it. He’d always been good at hiding emotion behind a masquerade of a big smile and deafening noise. Nobody ever suspected there was fear and hurt hiding beyond the loud, charming troublemaker.

“Please don’t cut us out, Trick.” He stopped dead. His fidgeting hands stilled, his legs turned to stone. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I’m… I’m not.” He tried to back away as Pete stepped closer, the cold sink against his lower back stopping him. “You are. You’re going back to that corner of your mind I can’t have you in, you’ve not even noticed yet, but don’t go back there.”

Patrick’s jaw clenched. “I’m-“ he was going to say “I’m not,” but his subconscious twisted the words he had prepared to come out as the truth “trying not to drag you down with me.” Pete sighed heavily as he wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. Patrick’s mind was screaming. Pete’s hands were on his bare back. Something was telling him to push him away, to get him to let go before he became aware of how soft his flesh felt against his spine.

Patrick had seen Pete without his shirt many times, he’d seen him naked on occasion, though that was usually accidental. Hell, the whole world had seen Pete’s dick.

Pete, however, had only seen Patrick’s bare torso once, and that was certainly not deliberate. He was painfully aware of how much larger his stomach was than Pete’s and how much more weight he was lugging around, despite him being smaller. Pete had never complained, it was almost as though he hadn’t noticed, but even for that time they’d been a thing, Patrick had made sure he wouldn’t have to see any more of him than necessary.

But somehow, below all those voices telling him to get away and cover up, there was something much more calming telling him… no, not telling him anything. It was a silent tranquillity he’d come to find in Pete’s arms that had always been there whenever he’d been aware of just how much belly there was between the two of them or when he’d convinced himself he wasn’t good enough. Somehow, it always was there to at least dampen the rest. Maybe that was cheesy or cliché or total bullshit or whatever, but then again, who was judging?

“Please let me help you, please Trick. I wanna help you get better.” His voice was small and croaky when he managed to push out his answer, “you are.” Pete loosened his hold a little and pulled back enough for Patrick to be able to see that big smile that always showed way too many teeth and he felt his lips twitching to mimic it.

“I… do you remember when you were at my house? Before the record dropped?” Pete nodded, “course.”  
“Well… I was trying to say something, right?”  
“Yep.”  
“And I just didn’t… I didn’t know if it was the right time or whatever, I wasn’t doing all that great but… Pete, I do feel better, maybe not _right_ now, I mean… yeah. But I haven’t fallen down that hole again. And in the past I would have. I’ve just… plateaued for a while. But I’m gonna be okay.” He smiled weakly and, to his surprise, he actually believed the words coming from his mouth. “More importantly, I’m not gonna cut you out, I’m…” _Okay, here goes. What’s the worst that can happen?_  
“I wanted… I want you back, Pete. I miss you, I really do. And I’m better, I’m well enough for us. Again.” He bit his lip nervously and studied the other man’s solemn face. “Are you sure?” A small nod reinforced that.

Pete’s lips were warm, they were so warm. A stark contrast to how cold Patrick had felt lately, and worlds apart from how he had felt last time this had happened. He was going to be okay. If he convinced himself of it, if he could just get that into his head, he was going to be okay. Somehow.

He parted his lips willingly as Pete prodded against them with his tongue and it slid inside, tracing every inch of his mouth and Patrick did the same, if a little more hesitantly. He was surprised when he found his hand twisting in Pete’s hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. He was even more surprised when he felt Pete biting down on his bottom lip. He was stunned when he found himself dropping the wet shirt from between them, revealing his bare chest to Pete without hesitation.

Pete ran his hands up and down his body, fingers leaving hot traces across Patrick’s skin before gently settling on his neck, thumbs lightly stroking along soft skin that used to be covered by coarse sideburns. His own hands tugged at the hem of Pete’s t-shirt, not wanting to push him, but he needn’t have worried. Pete whipped his shirt off and threw it across the room before reconnecting their lips frantically.   
Patrick’s breathing was erratic and desperate as he stroked across Pete’s abs, trying not to think about how much less attractive he must be and not to wonder how anybody, let alone Pete Wentz could want…  
“Calm down.” His voice was so light Patrick barely heard it, but it was enough to make him aware of his clenched jaw and his hands that were digging into Pete’s skin a little too hard. “Sorry,” he muttered, but was shut up immediately be the feeling of warm lips.

They felt like home.

He clenched up when Pete briefly brushed across his crotch and chuckled at his reaction as Patrick could feel as much blood going to his face as between his legs.   
He followed when he was tugged through into the little room, filled with nothing but a couch and a coffee table and Joe’s guitar. Pete must have caught his concern because he assured him they wouldn’t be disturbed as he locked the door.

After that everything went by in a bit of a haze. There was a lot of pulling and tugging and kissing and biting until they were finally lying on the wide sofa, Pete pinning Patrick down and straddling his naked thighs as his tongue lapped across his dick. Patrick choked back the noises threatening to spill from his throat when the warmth of Pete’s mouth nestled around him, and he had to force his hips not to buck up as he slowly started inching down. Pete giggled when Patrick let out an odd gurgling sound as he hit the back of Pete’s throat – god he was good at this – and the vibration sent shivers down Patrick’s spine as he whimpered pathetically.   
Pete pulled back a little, hand wrapped around the base of his dick, working him in time with his mouth, his tongue occasionally curled around the head challenging Patrick to hold back.  
He twisted his fingers into his dark hair, not pushing, just gripping tightly as though his sanity depended on it. Patrick was quietly cursing himself for not getting intimate the first time around, then again, he hadn’t known what he had been missing out on.   
“Fuck… Pete, _Pete_ stop, I’m gonna…” he was panting heavily and met Pete’s lidded gaze as he popped his mouth off, Patrick’s cock springing free and bouncing against his belly. Pete shuffled upwards until he was hovering over Patrick, a hand either side of his head, and kissed his hungrily. Patrick felt a little grossed out by the fact that he could taste himself on Pete’s lips, but he was too turned on to care enough to want to stop.   
“Condom,” he spluttered out between kisses, “do you have a condom?” Pete nodded lazily and climbed off him to reach his bag sprawled on the floor. He produced the small, black foil packet and a bottle of lube before going back to kissing Patrick. He sighed happily as Pete rubbed their dicks together, giving them friction, even if it was way too dry for Patrick’s liking, but he needed it. He needed Pete.   
He reached down and batted Pete’s hand away when he felt it stroking his length, he didn’t know if he could hold it much longer and he wanted… he _needed…_

He spread his legs wider, lifting his hips off the couch in the hopes of giving Pete enough hints. He felt long, rough fingers stroke down past his dick and his breath hitched when he felt Pete circling the sensitive muscle.  
“Oh, get on with it!” Patrick got frustrated when it didn’t go any further, “Pete please, fuck, just prep me already.”

He did not, however, expect Pete to pull away completely. “What?!” Patrick sounded a lot more aggressive than he wanted to and Pete looked a little intimidated. “Uh, well… I….” He nervously scratched his head and it took Patrick way too long to catch on.

“Oh… you want to…”  
“If- if you don’t mind.”  
“Yeah no I can do either, I just thought you…”  
“No,” Pete’s nervous giggle made Patrick’s head spin and painted a crazy smile across his face. “Okay, yeah, I’m fine with that… do you wanna…”  
“I can ride you I don’t… I’d like that.”  
“Okay, yeah, fine, I’ll… come here.” Patrick gently tugged on Pete’s shoulders until he was lying on top of him again and traced his left hand down his spine, stopping over his entrance. Pete’s breath caught in his throat as Patrick drizzled some of the cold lube over his arse and made sure to coat his fingers well before carefully sliding one inside.   
The reaction was instant. Pete’s face scrunched up and he bit down onto his bottom lip firmly, rocking back a little to help guide Patrick to where he wanted him. His finger brushed across that spot and he added a second, making sure to stretch Pete as far as he dared as he pushed against his prostate. Pete was making tiny moaning noises into his ear, not helping Patrick’s patience at all. “You okay?” Patrick's voice betrayed him as it broke. Pete shifted above him as he nodded. “I’m good to go,” Patrick swallowed back the _“and I’m going nowhere fast”_ that wanted to escape his mouth as he slid his fingers out. He reached for the condom Pete had got out and tore it open, stroking a small amount of lube over his dick before rolling it on.

Pete was breathing heavily when he lifted himself over Patrick’s cock. The sensation of him slowly sinking down was overwhelming. It took him a while to fully fit Patrick in, but when he did, he stilled for a moment, palms of his hand pressing against Patrick’s chest as he caught his breath. Patrick was way more turned on by Pete’s fingers stroking his nipples than he thought he would be and he firmly bit his lip to stifle the sounds threatening to escape him. He shifted below Pete, his breathing heavy as he remained buried inside him. This was not how he had imagined them fucking when he’d conjured up mental images to please his mind as well as his dick, but _damn,_ was it amazing. Way more amazing than any lousy mental image during a lazy morning wank could ever be.

And then he started moving. Pete’s hips mercilessly ground against Patrick, who was struggling to stay quiet at this point between Pete’s arse clenched around his dick and Pete’s fingers tweaking his nipples. Pete had his head tilted back and the bob of his Adam’s apple was just another thing making it hard for Patrick to hold on.  
Though, when he leaned forward so their faces were touching and Patrick could move inside Pete at his own pace, it didn’t make it any easier. And it certainly didn’t make it any easier when Pete bit down on his throat to muffle his cries. Patrick’s hand found its way to the back of Pete’s head, pushing him further into the crook of his neck and he fought down his own moans. “Fuck, Trick, you’re fucking amazing,” Pete panted as he dragged his teeth over Patrick’s pale skin. He was gonna have marks tomorrow.

Pete reached down between them and wrapped his hand around his own dick, Patrick figured he should probably be doing that, but he was way too invested in grabbing onto Pete’s hips to want to move his hands. Pete began rutting against him as his hands stroked in time with Patrick’s now heavy thrusts.

Pete let out a stifled cry and Patrick felt warmth hitting his stomach as his brain clouded over in a misty haze. He shook violently and couldn't help but let a pathetic _"Fuck, Pete, fuck yes"_ spill out of him along with his load.

Pete didn’t move immediately, he stayed lying on top of him, his hands stroking through the dirty-blond mop of thinning hair as he caught his breath. “You’re incredible, Trick.” Patrick smiled weakly with what little energy he had and was only faintly aware of Pete sliding off him and cleaning them both up. Once he’d disposed of the condom, he handed Patrick the shirt he had attempted to clean before and he took it gratefully. It was probably oddly worrying that he was more concerned about covering his torso than his pathetically limp dick, but he was glad Pete didn’t question it. He was fully dressed himself and helped Patrick wiggle into his jeans and popped his cap on his head for him.  
Patrick felt Pete’s lips touch the tip of his nose briefly and a warm sensation spread through his body as they twisted their fingers together. “Come on, I think we could all do with some sleep.”   
Pete’s voice was soft and Patrick didn’t resist as he was pulled through the venue towards their bus. He didn’t even bother untangling their fingers as they hurried past the crowd of fans outside.


	11. They were fighting for their love

Somehow the rotten fruit was easier to bear when Pete knew Patrick was barely a glance away. It had never bothered him too much, he obviously didn’t exactly enjoy it and he sure as hell felt like murdering a few faces in the crowd, but he didn’t react to it nearly as sensitively as his boyfriend. _His boyfriend._  
Patrick hadn’t fucked around (well, they had fucked around but… whatever) and declared to Andy and Joe the next day that, not only were they dating, but they were _together._ Pete hadn’t been aware of it himself until then, so the grin he gave was an authentic one. And then there was the fact that they were actually having sex – and a lot of it. And, even though Patrick was still getting used to the fact that yes, Pete was a bottom, he was _good_ at it. Really good. Or maybe that was just because he was Patrick. Either way, it sure as hell dampened the smell of inedible food.

But most importantly, Patrick seemed to be able to cope way better. Pete was careful to believe the Hollywood ‘love can cure your depression’ bullshit and he knew he wasn’t enough to make Patrick healthy again, but maybe, just maybe, he was some help. Patrick had told him once that it was easier to cope with the hate when he knew Pete had his back. It wasn’t a cure, but it at least muffled the symptoms for a while and if Pete could do at least that for him, he was pleased. He owed Patrick everything, after all. He owed his golden boy with his golden heart his life, this life he had somehow managed to construct out of bin bags and tattered social skills, a bass and the will to feel.

What more did he need, really?

They never made it public. They never told fans or the media or the internet. There were whisperings, there were rumours, there were theories, but seeing as the suspicion had been around for years, nobody actually thought it was real. It was all just ‘stage gay’. A PR stunt. If that’s what they wanted to believe, fine.

Pete, meanwhile, was finding it harder and harder to repress and deny his feeling as he had learned. Or maybe he’d never learned that. Maybe he really couldn’t feel in the way Andy and Joe and Patrick could. Maybe he’d never truly experience it and all he had was the attempt at emotion channelled by his lyrics.

He’d grown to hate the people from his past, grown to hate what they had made of him. He’d started hating them years and years ago, back when he had feared for young little Patrick’s life after he’d… after the incident. He’d cursed himself for not being able to understand him even in the slightest and then he’d cursed the people that had taught him he wasn’t to feel anything.  
He’d wished and prayed to be given some of Patrick’s pain, on the surface only so Patrick didn’t have to carry all of it, but the selfish part of his mind wanted to be able to _feel_ enough to care.

That’s why he’d done it. That’s why he’d followed in his footsteps. He realized now it was wrong, it was almost mockery to act as though Patrick’s attempt had been selfish, as though it had been nothing more than curiosity or selfishness.  
But he had felt so lost and so desperate to feel something, anything. Could he be blamed for that? Maybe.

He felt arms wrap around him from behind, pulling him close to the small body squeezing against his back. Patrick had lost a few pounds after some doctor had terrified him into a healthier diet, Pete felt kinda bad for not really having noticed how much bigger he’d got, but if his health was at risk, he was totally going to push him until it wasn’t anymore. He’d be having 2005 flashbacks at this point if Patrick’s cheeks weren’t hairless.  
Pete dropped the spatula he’d been hovering over the frying pan and spun round to catch his lips. Patrick frowned as he pulled away. “You’ve been eating my secret stash of chocolate, haven’t you?” Whoops. “Well, you said you wanted to lose a bit more weight so I guessed…” Patrick wasn’t convinced, he could tell by the raised eyebrows. “Okay, I’m sorry, I just… couldn’t resist.” Patrick shook his head in defeat.

Something smelled off.

“Oh shit!” He didn’t appreciate the ridiculous laugh that followed upon Pete realizing he was burning Patrick’s stupid veggie steak. “Shut up or you can cook your own dinner next time!”  
Patrick raised his hands in defence, “I cook my own dinner often enough as it is, Pete. That’s hardly a threat.”  
“Yeah but you love it when I cook.” Pete almost didn’t catch Patrick’s response of “yeah, twice a year,” but it was just loud enough for him to get the gist. He took the weird tofu-soy-whatever steak imitation bullshit off the hob to make sure it wouldn’t turn any more black than it already had before tackling him out of the blue.

“PETE!” Patrick yelled at he was slung over his shoulder, receiving a clap on the arse as Pete carried him through to the living area of his house. “twice a year,” he teased as his fingers wormed their way over Patrick’s ridiculously ticklish body, “I’ll give you twice a year you ungrateful swine!”  
“Pete PLEASE!” Patrick cried through the tears of laughter streaming down his face as he did his best to force the hands irritating his skin away. With little success. Pete straddled him so he couldn’t escape and mercilessly tickled the life out of Patrick, who was squealing beneath him.

Until he got a cushion in his face.

Pete spluttered in exasperation as he tried to adjust to the odd feeling, just in time for Patrick to whack it across his head again. “Pete get OFF me you DICK!” Patrick shouted as he beat him again and again. But the smile was etched into his features. Pete grabbed the nearest cushion that wasn’t being hoarded by Patrick and used it to parry his blows. “HA! Missed.”  
“Oh you bet!”

Pete wasn’t quite sure how they ended up rolling around on the floor surrounded by loose feathers, he was only aware of his stomach aching from laughter and the tears creeping out of the corners of his eyes. And Patrick’s cackling beside him. He turned his head and grinned at him, their faces inches apart.

Patrick was wearing a similar expression on his own face, “if you ever do that again,” he said, “I swear to god I will dump you.” But his features betrayed him. “You’d never,” Pete tempted. “Would too!”  
“Nah you couldn’t cope without my impeccable sense of humour.” Patrick didn’t even respond to that, he just raised his eyebrows. “Oh come on! I’m hilarious!”  
“Pete, babe, look, I love you, but tickle me again and I will castrate you with a nail file.”

Pete froze.

It was like the world went into slow-motion as Patrick stood up and wandered back towards the kitchen. He didn’t even realize he was being spoken to until an arm clamped over his shoulder. “Hey, you okay? Look, I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t, I’d never castrate you, I love your dick too much.” Pete just about managed to shake his head, trying to convey that that wasn’t what he was shocked by, that wasn’t… that wasn’t the reason he could… he was… “Pete?” Patrick’s blue eyes were suddenly inches away from his own and filled with concern. “Pete, sugar, I’m sorry, did I say something?” He was so worried. He was always so worried he’d done something wrong, even when the world was telling him he did everything right. He managed to shake his head, brushing the tears from his eyes in irritation.

It was _so much._ “You said… Patrick it’s so much I’m feeling so much.” He was confused, Pete could tell. A cool hand pressed against his forehead “you don’t have a temperature, are you feeling okay?” Pete’s heart leapt at the words of concern and he nodded. “you just, you said…” he made another attempt at explaining his mildly embarrassing teenage outburst once he’d calmed himself down a little, “you said you love me.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to freeze. “Oh… I’m- I’m sorry, was that too soon?”

“No of course not you moron! Of course not, we’ve been going out for two years! Three years? Two years!” Patrick smiled shyly, “Two and a half. And pretty on-off if you ask me.” Pete shrugged, “I never stopped.” Patrick was looking at him expectantly but Pete wasn’t quite sure what exactly was being expected of him so he smiled back. That seemed to be enough for now, at least.

-

Pete lay awake that night, Patrick’s breathing even next to him as he slept. His bare skin was almost glowing through the darkness, pale as he was. He never slept naked, but Pete had pretty much blown him until he drifted off.

He didn’t sleep because he didn’t want to miss a minute of this, he didn’t want to go a second without consciousness as he felt the fire tear through him.

He was feeling.

He felt alive.

It was as though every second of his being so far had been spent under water, looking up at the surface and trying to reach the people on the beach or the sun in the sky.

It was really fucking clichéd, even for Pete. He fell in love and found emotions, boohoo. But that wasn’t it. That was nowhere near it. He felt so many things, it was like he hadn’t even known they were there or some crap.  
Or maybe he really was just a hopeless romantic that had fallen for a tiny little golden boy with mucky-blond hair, the voice of an angel, the self-esteem of a sewer rat and a heart bigger than any of that.

He loved him.

Not only on that incredibly tight-minded stereotypical romantic sense, either. Patrick was his best friend, the only one who gave a shit when nobody else even tried to understand. He put everyone and everything before himself, always gentle, always kind, even when he was shouting.

He was his best friend.

And he loved him.

And Pete would tell him just that when he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's getting better all the time my dudes :) (Not my writing but their lives)


	12. He thought they had it planned

It was 5 p. m. when Patrick eventually left the studio. He was very much aware of the fact that Joe was waiting and with every passing minute his mood would sink, but to be honest, Patrick’s wasn’t the best at the moment anyway, and that was in spite of having been making music all day.  
He slipped into the coffee shop, folding his umbrella up and popping it into the stand next to the door. Joe was sitting by a window, hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. To Patrick’s surprise, he seemed in an okay mood as he watched the water droplets chase each other down the glass separating them from the rain.

Of course it was raining.

Of course it was.

“Hey!” Joe looked up and smiled when he caught sight of the bleached-blond sitting down opposite him. “Hey buddy! It’s been a while!” Patrick nodded in agreement. It had been a while. Two years. “You look good!”  
“Thanks you too.” He pointed to the band around Joe’s finger, “marriage suiting you?” Joe’s face was split in half by a broad grin when he followed Patrick’s gaze. “Yeah, yes, so far. Sorry we didn’t invite you, man, it really was only immediate family.” He waved it off as though it were nothing, acting like he hadn’t felt a little sad when he’d found out via Andy that his oldest friend had got married without him. In all honesty, though, it was Patrick’s own fault, he’d been… distant.

“How’ve you been doing?”  
“Yeah, great” _you fucking liar_. “How’s the record?” Patrick gave him a thumbs up “coming along well. Nearly recorded, then I’ve gotta find a producer. Mind you, it would probably be easier to do it myself at this point.”  
“Well, why not? You’ve produced before. You can do it, buddy, I know you can.” Joe’s smile was the most encouraging thing he’d got in months and when he thanked him, Patrick really meant it.

They chatted for thirty minutes or so until Joe finally dared breach the topic. “So, listen…” Oh god. Here it was. Patrick knew why Joe had called him out of the blue, or at least he’d had an inkling. “I need to tell you something.” He acted like he didn’t jolly well know who it was that really wanted to tell him something. “I saw Pete.”

Patrick tried to keep his body relaxed and not let Joe see how much he didn’t want to approach that topic, but he failed miserably. “He… he explained everything, Patrick.” He just scoffed. He couldn’t _wait_ to hear the shitty excuse Pete fucking Wentz had come up with now. “No, listen, I’m team Patrick, you know that, we all were when he just fucking disappeared. Hell, I would have set out to kill him myself if I hadn’t convinced myself he was dead.” Patrick just shrugged. He’d been both relieved and infuriated when Andy had told them all some months back that he’d seen their former bandmate, just briefly. He didn’t know if he could forgive him. “And this is gonna sound wild and fucking crazy Patrick, really, but we’re not fucking with you. He just… he said he couldn’t tell you himself.”  
“Yeah sure he couldn’t. he never could.” There was a bitter taste sitting on his tongue.  
“Pete… didn’t want to go. He was kinda… dragged away. Against his will.”  
“Should have fucking come back then.”  
“He couldn’t, Trick, or I’m sure he would have.”  
“Don’t fucking call me that, Trohman, we’ve been over this.” Joe dropped his head to his arms with a loud sigh. “Look, you’re gonna have to just believe me on this, Pete’s not from round here. No, don’t smart-ass me, don’t. you remember those fuckin weird silver Ziggy Stardust pants he was wearing when you met?”

A sting shot through Patrick’s heart as though somebody had injected venom into it and in that instant, he didn’t trust his voice enough to speak steadily so he just nodded. “Well, it might have seemed like a fucking shitty fashion choice in 2001, but not in 3672.” What the fuck was he going on about?  
“Joe I’m not in the fucking mood.”  
“No, listen. he gave me this," Patrick glanced down at the blue envelope Joe slid across the table until it was resting in front of him menacingly, "he said it would explain what he can't. He can’t come back, but he told me he wanted to and he told me… he told me to tell you he loves you.” Joe’s eyes were big and brown, sincerity spilling from them and filling the words he’d just said.

“You know what, Joe?” and Patrick marvelled at the calmness in his voice, “Fucking lose my number. I don’t want shit to do with you.” And with that, he got up and left.

 

 

Patrick lay awake that night, his own breathing erratic and uneven. He didn’t know if it was anger or heartbreak, he didn’t know who he was angry at.

Pete for disappearing in the middle of the night and leaving him alone, to wallow in his own mind, the one he had so often claimed he’d wanted to protect him from. _“Oh dear Patrick, darling baby, don’t cut me out, oh dear, I want to help you, please let me save you from yourself,”_ Fuck him. Fucking fuck him. Pete had torn him open and left him to bleed dry without so much as a goodbye.

And Joe. Joe and Andy. What had happened?  
When had they gone so wrong that the two people he’d once considered brothers used the ex that had broken him to make fun of him? When had they decided he mattered so little to them that the return of sleepless nights, loneliness and self-blaming were worth it for their amusement?

The worst part was, he still loved them. Every last one of them, and he always would. He hated himself for it, but he did. Back when they were young and independent and they'd thought they'd had it planned, should have known right from the start...

  
He couldn’t even cry anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, yeah, the End I guess :) Thanks for sticking with me, I'm currently working on something new and I'll post it chapter by chapter when it's finished ;) stay safe my dudes xx  
> I'd be really happy about feedback


	13. Should have known right from the start you can't predict the end

The little boy was sitting in the sandpit, doing his best to pile the coarse stuff up into something resembling a castle whilst simultaneously trying to defend his construction from the destructive feet of other kids. His big, blue eyes were fixed on the pile of sand as his tiny hands patted it down firmly in an attempt to make it stay the way he wanted it to. The concentrated expression on his face was all too familiar to Pete.

It was warm for mid-September, but the leaves had already started to turn to warmer colours. Pete had always loved watching the seasons change here, it made the world feel alive. But autumn had always been his favourite, ever since that first time he’d seen a red leaf drift past Joe’s window in 2001. He smiled fondly at the memory.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” Pete didn’t dare turn towards the voice. “Then again, I don’t really know how long it’s been for you.” He was faintly aware of somebody sitting down on the bench next to him, making sure they weren’t touching in any way. Pete cleared his throat, meaning to say something, though he wasn’t really sure what. “It’s been 7 years for me, by the way. Though I suppose you know that.” He tried hard to read the man’s voice, to hear whether he was going to strangle him there and then, but to his surprise he didn’t detect so much as a hint of bitterness.

“You know I didn’t believe Joe at first. Thought he was poking fun at me for having been so ridiculously infatuated with you. My Pete Wentz phase.” That hurt more than he cared to admit. “But I believed him. In the end. I don’t know why, maybe it makes sense, maybe I just needed a friend. Maybe I’m just beyond caring.” Pete glanced to the corner of his eye and caught sight of a small figure wearing a black jacket, a pair of glasses and what seemed to be a fedora. “We’ve not got back together, if you were wondering. But we’re all doing okay. My first record was a fucking flop but once people got over the fact that I’m not Fall Out Boy, things got better. I’m better now.”

A dark-haired woman crouched down next to the little boy and stroked his blond head. “Have you got anything to say?” Pete drew a deep breath and did what he did best: Talk his way out of shit. “You read the letter?” Pete didn’t know why he’d asked because he knew he wouldn’t get a vocal response and he couldn’t see the nod of his head. “It sounds fucking crazy, I know, but it’s right. I come from the future and we don’t have guitars or parks or nice food or emotions. It probably seems kinda bleak when this is all you know… but it’s okay, really.  
I got… sent here. Got into some trouble, doesn’t matter, anyway, they dumped me here. It was only supposed to be for a few months but I disappeared from where they’d left me and it took them a while to track me. Eight years, to be precise.” God, had it really been that long?

Patrick didn’t reply. They just sat there, drinking in the rays of sun dancing across their faces. “I’m sorry I left without any warning or explanation. They just kinda took me…” Patrick shrugged, “it’s okay, Pete. I forgave you a long time ago.”

He felt like a huge weight had just been lifted off him. Pete took a deep breath, the first deep breath he’d dared to take in ten years. Because that’s how long it had been for him. Ten years since he’d last seen Patrick. He wondered if he could tell how old he’d become.

He also finally dared to look at him and immediately wished he had done so earlier. There was no malice in Patrick’s face, not a hint of the fact that Pete had essentially sent him spiralling towards the brink of depression, if Joe’s report had been anything to go by. All he could see was peace and tranquillity. And kindness. Always kindness.

“Thank you.”

Patrick sighed, his eyes were still closed, his face turned towards the sun. his lips were twisted into a faint smile and Pete found it just as infectious as always. When the kid laughed, Patrick turned in his direction and opened his eyes.

They were glowing.

Pete felt a surge of ecstasy flow through his veins when he saw they held noting but happiness in them. There was no self-loathing, no misplaced guilt, no shame. He was, truly and finally, happy. His smile twisted into a beam as the tiny boy rushed towards him as quickly as his tiny legs would allow him and Patrick lifted himself off the bench slightly as he held out his arms towards him. “Come here little rascal!”

It was as though the sun was shining from him when Patrick hurled his son up into his arms and balanced his tiny figure against his shoulder. “Daddy, I built a castle!” Pete couldn’t help but grin broadly at the way Patrick opened his mouth in probably not that faked awe when the little boy pointed at the heap of sand he’d been working on. “Wow! That’s amazing little guy! You did a great job! I don’t think and bad dragons will be able to get in there!”  
The kid giggled and hit Patrick’s shoulder weakly. “No daddy! Dragons not bad! Dragon protects the… the good people from the bad people!”

Pete watched the scene before him with happiness blooming in his chest and pride in his bosom and, yes, a tear in his eye. He smiled at the short, dark-haired woman that took their child off Patrick and fastened him into his stroller, expertly avoiding his little kicking feet. She seemed nice, she gave Pete that warm look her husband was so good at.

He stood up. He’d achieved what he’d come here for, he knew Patrick was well and he also knew he wasn’t and couldn‘t be a part of his life. Not anymore. But, for some odd reason, he didn’t feel too bad about that. Things seemed to have a way of sorting themselves out, in the end.

“Pete,” the sincerity in Patrick’s voice couldn’t be overheard and Pete turned around to find him closer than expected. His wife was already slowly strolling off, leaving the two men alone. “Yeah?”  
Patrick paused and looked at his feet, shuffling from one to the other as though he didn’t quite know how to formulate what he wanted to say.

“Why?” Pete raised his eyebrows at the immensity of the question. “I mean, why did you stay so long? You could have just gone back to that pick-up spot any time and got home, right? Why stay with us crumby little people with our stupid emotions when you could have gone home?”

He wasn’t sure why the answer was so easy all of a sudden, it was something he’d been asking himself for twelve years without a result. But now, it seemed to make sense.

“Because you’re amazing. Humans. I mean, I am one but… I feel we, the ones from my time, that is, are a poor replica. You’re… you’re amazing. You laugh when you’re happy and you dance and sing and create. You make silly little bracelets you give to people you like and you press your lips together when you love each other. You keep other species around yourselves and become attached to them, you talk to them as though they could understand you and they become your family. You hold hands when somebody means so much to you, you don’t want to let go and when you want to show somebody how much they mean to you, you hold them against yourself. Water falls from your eyes when you’re sad or you hurt yourself and you write music and books to try and understand what you’re feeling. You try to piece yourselves back together when you’ve fallen apart and even when you’re broken, you still have hope. You have so much hope, always, all the time.  
“And you’re kind. You help people who can’t help themselves, you even help other creatures because you empathize with their pain. You’re so kind. The human race. Always looking out for each other, always helping, always hoping. And I hoped, I _wished_ that if I stayed around you guys longer, I could become that beautiful, too.”

Pete never realized he’d trailed off until he felt himself being dragged back to reality by the tightest hug he had ever experienced. He tentatively wrapped his arms around Patrick, holding him close, feeling his warmth.  
He always gave the best hugs. Tight, sincere, never faked, never empty. He always meant it. Pete didn’t want to break away from it, he wanted to freeze the moment.  
But he had to. Patrick was smiling a little, though Pete could tell he was holding back tears.

“Thank you.”

“I tried to get strawberries,” Pete attempted to lighten the mood a little, “but I couldn’t find the place. Guess it’s been too long, I can’t even remember where it is.” Patrick shook his head though, “it’s not there anymore. It closed down maybe five years ago.”  
“Ah.” An odd sense of loss and finality spread through his body at those words.

Pete held out his hand and Patrick shook it willingly, smiling a little more brightly than he used to. “Goodbye, Patrick Stump.”  
A familiar warmth spread through him as his hand was squeezed slightly. “Goodbye, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III.”  
The rest of Patrick’s words remained unspoken as Pete watched him disappear down the path leading through the golden trees, with the two people he loved most.

He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIED there's an epilogue I know I'm a rat I did this to antagonize Kass I am sorry but for real now this is it. This story only exists because of this epilogue, so now you know what to blame.  
> drop me a comment pls, I really am thirsty,,,  
> So long and good night, guys, thanks for sticking with me xx (no for real it's 3am and I'm wolfing down pasta like there's no tomorrow)


End file.
